


contact is crisis

by brandyalexanders2 (brandyalexanders)



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27770626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/pseuds/brandyalexanders2
Summary: “You wanna try and explain what the fuck you were thinking, you absolute Judas?”“Uh, alright. Hi, Tom.”—a season three fic, because i can’t stop thinking about greg spending the night with the waiter from tom and shiv’s wedding. spoilers through the end of season two.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch & Kendall Roy, Greg Hirsch/Andrew Dodds, Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 17
Kudos: 50





	1. ozymandias

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i wouldn’t say this fic is all that upsetting yet, but if the tagged content might bother you be wary. it’ll be a bit more serious as it goes, but it’s pretty safe so far. if you’d like me to add content warnings, please let me know! thank you for reading!
> 
> also, the title is from this quote by anne carson: contact is crisis. as the anthropologists say, “every touch is a modified blow.”

It’s all quiet on the Mediterrenean shore, the Roy’s frankly ridiculous yacht meandering close to this private beach that Greg’s been too tense to enjoy. At first he’d been surprised at how steady the boat was under his feet even while it was soaring along, but laying on the queen mattress in his confined quarters is making his stomach turn with seasickness. 

This is bad. 

He has a way out, technically. He’s got a few sheets of paper that he can play like cards, but he barely knows the game, and what’s the value of an ace when it’s tucked into _his_ sleeve? He doesn’t know what to do, so he’s going to die. He’s actually going to be shot in the kneecaps and left to rot off the coast of Crete. It’s like that poem Ewan liked to quote at him, the one he said was about arrogance and transience. Once-great men, pillars of sand. 

Only, Greg’s never known exactly what that meant. He’s never been great, either. He’s spent time studying, letting his superordinates correct his missteps with sharp tongues and biting consequences. He’s developed somewhat of a palate for cruel things like foie gras and ortolan, suits that cover his wrists and ankles the right way, not just whatever fits him most closely off the rack. He has a bedframe and actual crystal wine glasses. But none of those things put him in league with someone like Kendall, and he knows he’ll never even have a chance to touch Logan. Greg doesn’t have his gravity, the crushing weight that commands the rest of the world to fall in line. So it’s all going to collapse in on him, the trappings of his brush with wealth dragged under the rubble, drowned in the churning Aegean Sea with his pathetic body. 

Or maybe he’ll just have to move in with his mom for a bit. 

If he looks at it rationally, he’s not completely fucked. He’s got savings. Not a lot, but more than enough for the way he’s used to living. Worst case, he pawns some of his nice things off on Manhattan CraigsList, finds a middling job somewhere far, far away from the bullshit. Maybe he can get a roommate, someone who’s never heard of the Roys or the empire they’ve built. But maybe that’s too lofty of a goal with their global fucking reach. He’ll have to become an actual, honest-to-god hermit to put this infinite clutter behind him. 

Greg is just starting to consider which national park would be the easiest to hide in for the longest when someone knocks authoritatively on his door. It doesn’t help the thick panic in his chest. It flares out in splintered shards, pinning him to the bed. He considers pretending he’s asleep. It’s only late in the afternoon, but it’s been a long day already so it could be plausible. 

“Greg, come on.” It sounds like Kendall, his monotone timbre authoritative even through the wood. Maybe he shouldn’t ignore his landlord, given the circumstances. Also, family first. Greg forces himself up from the plush bed, the fresh white linens and fawny-toned comforter. He hasn’t had much time to admire the understated decoration. 

He turns the handle and opens the door to Kendall, whose stress is fucking palpable. Executioner’s guilt, perhaps? Greg starts to worry immediately. He flounders a bit, searches for a greeting that won’t betray his sense of apocalyptic dread. 

“Hey, Ken,” he starts, “come on in, man. Can I help you out with something?” 

Kendall brushes past him. “You need to shut the door.” 

Greg does, being as quiet as possible to fit the clandestine intrigue of the conversation. Kendall’s found a place to settle, sitting in one of the two padded Catalonia chairs that skirt the edge of the bed. He looks fidgety and fretful, the painful way he’s looked all year, but there’s something just under the surface tension, waiting to breach. 

“Everything okay? Family-wise, or?” 

“It’s me,” Kendall says, and Greg’s slightly ashamed of how much weight that immediately lifts off of his shoulders. He makes himself frown and takes the seat opposite his cousin. He’s got a view of the receding teal of the ocean, the breaks in the lapping waves crowned with golden undern sun. It leaks over Kendall’s silhouette and shadows the room. 

It doesn’t quite make sense to Greg, why Kendall would come to him to talk about this. Maybe it’s another plot that he has to figure out as he goes. Maybe Kendall’s got a tape recorder- international waters and maritime law probably make that kind of thing okay. He rubs his own wrist placatingly, runs his fingers over the skin and bone to remind him he’s still here, things are still okay. He can make sense of it all. He tries to summon all the Roy cunning in his bloodline. 

“Oh. Wow. Fuck, that’s- really cold of your dad, man, I’m so sorry.” He grimaces again and leans forward, keeping his posture steady, strong. “Do you wanna… like, should we get a drink, or something stronger if you- if you have any? One last hurrah, as it were?” 

Kendall fixes him with a sharp stare, so he shuts up and pays attention. “He’s announcing it at dinner tonight, then there’s going to be a press conference tomorrow. And it’s going to be me, public-facing. But I don’t think it has to be on his terms.”

“Right,” Greg says, nodding attentively. “No, for sure. Stick it to the old man, I guess.” He’s still not sure where he fits into this, if Kendall isn’t trying to go out with a bang. And now that he’s mentioned it, he kind of wants to be high to get through the rest of this cruise through scenic unease. 

Kendall’s weary eyes are beseeching. He’s been so sad and crumpled the last year. Greg meets his gaze with what he hopes is trustworthy warmth, a small token of appreciation for all the kindness Kendall’s shown him. “I need you, for this. If I’m going to pull it off I need everything you have.” 

Oh. It clicks into place and Greg tries not to let it show on his face. Even though he’s really making an attempt, his eyes definitely widen and a stutter leaves his mouth when he starts. “Um, you mean the- sensitive information, which I’ve been exposed to.” 

“I mean. Do you have anything else?” Kendall sounds sarcastic but there’s a twinge of hope to it. 

Greg shakes his head. “No, yeah, not much besides those documents.”

“...So can we go over them? Like, yesterday, Greg? This is kind of big.” 

He feels steely hesitance in his stomach. _No, no_ , he thinks, _don’t back down. Cards in your hands._ “That’s the thing about it, though?” He’s getting bolder with every word, thinking about how big this could be for him. He can raze the empire. He can set much bigger fires with Kendall on his side, but he needs to be sure. “I’m just wondering, if I’ll have… some kind of safety net? I don’t wanna be hung out to dry.” 

Kendall steeples his fingers and sighs, but he nods after a moment’s pause. “Okay, I get it. I know this puts you in a weird place. None of us asked for this to happen, but it’s gonna fucking happen, and you and I have a chance to do some good here.” He’s sitting up straight, focused and assured. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’ve got you, alright? Whatever happens. If we do this, you’re going to lose a lot. If it works, though. Come on. It’s whatever you want once we get it.”

Greg nods along, watches Kendall with heedful consideration. “Right,” he says slowly, implicitly asking for more.

“I know you have reservations. It’s a fucking impossible choice. But listen, nobody else is gonna come through that door and offer you anything better before that jet takes off in the morning. We can do this, man, just- work with me.”

Fuck. It’s a lot to consider. In the same way, though, it really isn’t. If he leaves ATN he can clear his muddy conscience. Kendall’s forcing him to think about the prospects he has on the other side, too- he’s got inheritance money, if he walks away from it all, and isn’t this what he wanted, anyway? This could be his chance to enact his Grexit. He can move on. He can work things out and wriggle out from underneath Tom. 

Fucking Tom. Greg’s been trying not to think about him, on account of their likely double slaughter. It kind of breaks his heart remembering the flash of betrayal across his face when Shiv had offered him up as a sacrifice. But this is, maybe, a chance to keep both of them safe, a final gracious thing he can do for his friend, or whatever he is. Tom, who wants to look after Greg but isn’t always good at it. 

It might also damage things between them irreparably. The thought hurts Greg’s chest for reasons he doesn’t want to disclose. He just can’t give up this security blanket, this final stay of execution. It’s this or it could be the guillotine somewhere further down the line. He doesn’t like his chances, going it alone. 

“Yeah,” he says, because the silence is getting heavier, Kendall’s imploring stare more serious. “Yeah, fuck it, okay. Let’s- let’s do it. Let’s kill your dad, ha-ha.” 

Kendall stills for a moment, then breaks out in a huge grin, the happiest Greg has seen him for months. It would be nice, if they weren’t staging corporate murder. Maybe it still is. “Fuck, I guess we’re gonna kill my dad.” 

They laugh together, reach across the way, bump their fists in this gesture that’s awkward but more than welcome. It’s a blood pact without the daggers and biological spillage. Even with the newly lightened atmosphere, Greg’s still a bit uneasy, the subtle sway of the boat still affecting his nausea. He brushes his hair out of his face. It’s a bit damp from his earlier bouts of nervous sweating in the sweltering heat. “So, like, what’s the angle?”

“You tell me. What kind of ammunition do we have?”

Greg sits heavily against the backrest, cups his elbows with his hands. He thinks about the papers he’s stuffed under his mattress. They’re stained with lighter fluid and creased, and he only has a few, what little remains of the big picture. It doesn’t quite make sense to him. “See, I’ve kinda, I’ve glanced, you know, I’ve taken a peek at the documents. But I’m not a lawyer, so. There’s payoffs, and signatures, and implications, for sure. Definitely- records of dirty deeds.”

Kendall watches him with an open mouth, caught between exasperation and amusement. “Alright,” he says, “well, we’ll leave first thing and I’ll take a look myself. You’re coming for moral support. Pack up after I leave, okay? We can’t afford being underprepared.” 

“Got it.” Greg swallows. There’s probably nothing he can do to fully prepare himself for whatever’s going to happen in the morning. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to rest by then, but at least he’ll have plenty of time to fit his strewn-about sailing clothes back into his luggage. He’d bought them all for the occasion. There’s still an outfit he hasn’t worn, this navy blue Lacoste polo that he’d picked out with Tom in mind. 

He’ll wear it on the flight back home. 

If he can’t sleep anyway, he might as well ask. “Hey, so, do you have a bump, though? I can pay you. I can Venmo you real quick-”

“Jesus, Greg. Don’t send me money, just, here. Just be cool.” 

—

Greg is used to being spammed with notifications from Tom. Tom loves to call him over and over until he picks up just to relay information he could have put in a text. He emails Greg all the time, stupid forwards with office humor, can you believe the nerve of whichever asshole’s getting on his nerves, stupid, nonsensical events he likes to add to Greg’s calendar for no discernable reason. It’s nothing new. 

He wakes up the afternoon after the Trojan horse press conference with fifty missed calls and a frantic slurry of texts that he can’t quite make out. His brain is clawing at his skull and his eyes don’t want to focus on the words. 

After he spends some time fading in and out of conscious thought, he makes an effort to blink himself up. 

For some reason, he’s slept on his couch. His back and knees raise valid complaints about the situation when he stumbles to the kitchen, resolving to knock back a glass of water and a handful of Ibuprofen before he deciphers whatever it is Tom’s saying. The tap runs cold. He splashes some water on his skin, tries to work out some of the hot flush he’s got going. 

His phone vibrates the glass of his coffee table. Maybe he should change, too- yesterday’s gray Oxford is wrinkled as all hell. The sleeves feel suffocating. 

Greg roots around his closet for something comfortable, settles on a Kensington blue cable-knit that’s soft against his skin. He picks out a pair of clean chinos and puts himself together while he tries to pick up the pieces of the evening. Kendall might know what happened, if he asks him about it later. 

After he dawdles in his bathroom, brushing his teeth to get the taste of sleep out and combing through his admittedly greasy hair, he finally, finally returns to his couch and braves a look at his phone. The very first text is from Tom. His missed call notifications have ticked up from fifty to fifty-three, which really isn’t too bad given his track record. 

**Are you out of your mind?**

**Are you the first recipient of some brand new experimental lobotomy treatment?**

**Are you trying to put me in the hospital with a massive coronary before age 45, Greg?**

**I know you’re getting these. It’s 3 in the afternoon, you coked out bastard. Rise and fucking shine.**

So he isn’t _happy_. Greg doesn’t even know where to start with all that. He scrolls through the conversation and it drops his stomach, all of Tom’s neuroticism spilled over sixty unanswered messages. At least he doesn’t have his read receipts on- he’d learned his lesson the first time he’d left Tom on read for an evening, thank you. 

He’s not sure what the appropriate course of action is, here. There’s no Bitmoji for ‘you’re my boss, our company is going under, and now I’m on the opposite side of a hostile takeover’. He’s not sure a ‘sorry about the blackmail!’ gif would really cover things. In lieu of saying anything important, he sends a concise, **hey Tom**.

His phone starts ringing immediately. He lets out a drawn-out sigh and answers, and Tom’s in his ear as soon as he picks up. He’s slow and sleek, circling Greg with the feline quality in his tone that slips out when he’s being scolding. “You wanna try and explain what the _fuck_ you were thinking, you absolute Judas?” 

“Uh, alright. Hi, Tom.”

“Hi, Tom?” Tom snorts at him, this snippy, mean sound that makes Greg shrink in on himself. “No. No, fuck off, Greg, don’t be polite. We’re having a squabble right now. Like, what the fuck?”

Greg bites his lip and chooses his words carefully. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, trying to seep sincerity into his tone. “I see how this turning of events, of tables, if you will- it doesn’t look good, but-”

“No, it doesn’t look good. It looks like you just fucked me dry over a barrel, Greg. It looks like you tried to work out the trolley problem in your earthworm brain and I was the acceptable casualty,” Tom spits. “What the fuck. And now I’m down an assistant? Who’s going to bring me my morning coffee, Greg? Who’s going to fetch my dry-cleaning, _Greg_?”

He’s putting sharp emphasis on _Greg_ every time it leaves his mouth. Greg usually likes how Tom calls for him, the way he says his name with range and depth and scale, but right now he feels like he’s being chastised for the sin of existing as himself. He sighs again, exhaling from deep within his onerous chest. 

He’s still at a loss. What’s the appropriate response to betraying your best friend?

Well, that’s a way to describe him. It doesn’t quite fit, but Greg can’t think of a more suitable designation for Tom. Trying to put too fine a point on what they are to each other seems disingenuous. Nailing down the way he feels about his inarguable slimeball of a former boss is profoundly embarrassing, anyway, even when Greg is the only person that has to know about it. Especially then. 

“Technically, dude, I haven’t even been your assistant since- you know. I kinda just do those things because you flood my inbox if I don’t.”

“Ohh-kay. You’re gonna hold that against me after blackmailing me, you slippery asshole? I thought I torched all your leverage, by the way.”

Greg’s throat feels dry and dusty as soon as Tom mentions the papers. “I saved some?” He offers the information with rocky trepidation. 

“You saved some. Greg the goddamn conniving little Copperhead. Fuckin’ cute but deadly. You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

“Yeah, Tom. I think… think you might have mentioned, yeah.” He sounds put-upon; moody, but resigned to it. “Did you- did you need something? I mean, did you call for a reason?”

Tom’s hornet’s-nest ire has stopped for a spell. It’s a moment before he speaks, which might be a good sign. “Do I need a good reason to call you?”

“Like, are you just going to yell at me?”

“God, no. You might be into that for all I know, you obviously sadomasochistic prick.” The accusation is too pointed to read as a joke. Greg frowns deeply, glad Tom can’t gauge his reaction. “Alright, consider this a work call. And consider yourself laid off effective immediately, severance non-negotiable.” 

Greg kind of wants to lay in bed forever. Dealing with the ramifications of this whole ordeal has already started to veer towards _too much_ and it’s only been a day. It’s the way Tom is berating him. This isn’t his usual alpha male posturing. His nettling, put-Greg-in-his-place powerplay has this new wind of hurt behind it. He sounds cornered, like he’s been caught in a bear trap, like chewing his way out and crawling away with a bloody, bony stump might be his best option. It’s fucking uncomfortable, alright, and Greg is someone who’s rather used to managing the nuances of Tom’s emotions. 

He’s probably gritting his teeth, his patent brand of vivid intensity mapped across his eyebrows and his tight frown. It’s so much harder to self-advocate when Tom is right there in person and glaring daggers of disapproval up at him, so Greg is grateful he’s opted for a teleconference over showing up at his door, deranged. 

That particular fantasy is a bit too silly and romantic, given the circumstances. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll talk to my boss about that,” Greg says. 

Tom fucking explodes. “God dammit, Greg, you white-livered little cocksu-”

Greg hangs up on him and launches his phone across the room. It buzzes on the hardwood floor, the harsh noise rattling his exhausted skeleton, his pounding head. 

He’s not sure what part of him feels most wounded, and he doesn’t want to stick around to find out. He stands up with a bit of effort and heads down the hall to Kendall’s block. 

—

“What the fuck, Greg!” 

Kendall’s got weird taste in games. This is FIFA, what, 10? Greg is sprawled on his floor with a PlayStation 3 controller in his numb hands, watching pixelated soccer- no, _football-_ players roll around an out-of-focus field. Well, now he’s looking at the win screen, since he’s just beaten Kendall for what must be the fifth time in a row. He doesn’t know. It feels like it’s been forever, like time is stopping and starting, like it’s doubling back on itself. 

“How’d you get so good at this shit? Beat me even though you’re a fucking lightweight, alright.”

Greg turns his head up to look at Kendall on the couch. He gives him a shrug and a wry smile. “Lots of practice, I guess. And I have this theory. I think the, uh, the cocaine makes it easier? Like, it enhances the mind, right, and I feel like I can see extra frames? Like, it’s in higher definition, I think. And I can react faster.”

Kendall snorts at him, shrugs, and kicks his feet up on his coffee table. It’s definitely too expensive to have his Lanvin curb sneakers propped up on it so casually, but it’s his apartment, so Greg doesn’t say anything. “Alright, man. Whatever you say. You’re just _good_ , really.”

“Ha. Luck of the draw, or whatever.” 

His mouth is so dry it’s like he was stuffing down cotton balls straight from the bag. Water sounds wholly unappealing, though, and his stomach revolts just thinking about trying to eat anything. This is his and Kendall’s second night of post-coup celebration- apparently that’s why Greg had crashed on his couch and slept until the afternoon. They’d chased lines with Black Velvet in too-fancy tumblers, entertained the idea of going out, and ultimately settled down to play generations-old video games. 

It feels fairly unglamorous. It’s the type of frat-boy hangout that Tom might endlessly mock him for, if he still cares about Greg anymore. He hasn’t tried to call since Greg let his phone ring earlier, which is kind of a win? Maybe. His ears are still ringing from being called _cute but deadly_ \- it’s just like Tom, making things weird in tense moments so they stick out in Greg’s mind, the little barbs of mystifying coquetry that define their whole deal. 

It’s not a deal, though. Definitely not anymore. 

He’s got this bitter taste sticking around his tongue. It’s nice to relax with Ken for a bit, a little break from whatever the hell is happening in the outside world, but he’s still full of this what-if anxiety, this slippery slope of stress that he probably shouldn’t have skied down. His heart fucking burns. He’s so wired, he could write a book about all the parts of his body that are telling him he’s made a mistake. 

Kendall nudges at his shoulder with his brushed leather toe. “Humble _and_ stoic,” he says. “Something on your mind tonight, Greg?” 

Where to start? Greg picks himself up slowly, sitting with his knees drawn up and his back against the arm of the sofa. He licks his lips, rubs them together. “I talked to Tom earlier,” he starts, hedging the issue at hand.

“Tom Wamb! No shit. How’d he sound? Like, fully imperiled, or just mildly perturbed?” 

His joke makes Greg smile again, just a hint. “Uh, definitely distressed. I don’t know. He tried to fire me.” 

Kendall laughs and stretches across the couch. He’s got this lazy way about him that Greg just can’t wrap his head around in his current state. Maybe that kind of casual composure comes with time. “Did you let him?”

“I don’t think he has the authority anymore, so.”

“Damn straight. You’re a real Roy now, don’t let his ilk push you around.” 

Greg feels a little better with the phone call off his chest. Being acknowledged as part of the family puts some wind back in his sails, as well. He rubs at his knee with his fidgety fingers. “Sorry to mix work and play, but um, have you talked to anyone?” 

Kendall’s groan is laced with disappointment. “Ugh. Ruin my weekend. I spoke with Roman,” he says.

“Oh, that’s good? Did he seem upset?” 

“You know Rome,” Kendall says vaguely. Greg does, kind of, but this situation seems beyond his grasp. “He called me Caesar but I’m not sure he knows what he’s referencing. I think he might be having a hard time, under the caustic petulance.”

Greg gets the feeling he’s intruded, like he’s opened a door at one of many Roy mansions and found a hushed conversation he shouldn’t be privy to. He pulls a sympathetic frown even though Kendall can’t see him. “That, uh, that really sucks,” he says, and his search for something more meaningful to say comes up short. 

“I mean, I figured. They were never going to be happy about it.” He sounds drab and distant. “That’s not what this is about, though. It’s bigger than them. You know that, right?” 

Greg tries to give Kendall a reassuring nod. On some level, he gets it. There hadn’t been many options for either of them; desperate times, desperate measures. Hell, he and Kendall are probably faring better than the rest of them. He can’t even imagine the tirade that Logan is unquestionably raging against his two loyal children. Well, three, but he kind of doubts that Connor’s been a real player in the current game. And that’s to say nothing of Tom, poor, hapless Tom, who must be mercilessly fucked no matter how the chips fall. 

He really is a piece of shit for leaving them behind, isn’t he? 

Thing is, though, he ended up safe. He’s out of his fucking gourd on Kendall’s living room floor, but like, he’s okay. They’re going to be okay. The business side of this mess, Greg doesn’t get it, but Kendall’s got his back. The family side is going to be awful for awhile, but hey, he knew that when he signed up for this veritable suicide mission. 

_Let’s kill your dad. Let’s turn our backs on your siblings. Let’s sabotage Tom Wamb._ It’s messy brutality in theory and in practice. 

“I’m with you, Ken. It’s- it’s fucked up, but like, it’s fine.”

“Eloquent as ever,” Kendall says, amused. “Now, if you don’t mind, the coup can wait for Monday. Right now, all we need to work on is staying crossfaded.” 

—

Greg is going to die. He has that thought maybe ten times a week, probably more now that he lives in Manhattan with an enabling drug addict, but it’s real this time. They’re at some bar- Kendall says he doesn’t like clubs, but Greg can’t really tell the difference- and the lights are tessellating across his vision, shrewd as the sun. It’s so disgustingly hot that he’s probably sweating through his undershirt. 

He’s definitely going to keel over and die. Kendall is having a good time, though. He’s been talking to this blonde accountant he ran into several rounds ago, and he’s actually loosening up. So maybe this is good for him? Greg feels weird speculating. He shifts in his barstool. It’s up too high; his knees brush the underside of the tiny little table. Whatever he’s drinking is nearly medicinal with how bitter it is, some kind of ginger cocktail, he thinks? He hates it. His heart is racing along in time with the bright, burning music, then faster. This is just awful. 

It’s like Tom’s Eyes Wide Shut bachelor party, inescapable, brutal high and all. At least Tom isn’t abandoning him to hook up with total strangers and then brag sadly about it. Greg hates to admit that he’d been fucking devastated that night, but he _had_ been, sitting with the constant reminders that he was never going to be enough. He barely remembers anything after he railed besides sitting there and trying not to let his abject agony play out on his face. “This is nightmarish,” he’d said, and he’s still not sure if Tom nodding ever so slightly had been a side effect of the cocaine.

Someone at this bar claps him on the back. Greg recoils, then forces a smile. “Hey-oh, Greg the egg,” Kendall greets, and Greg nods in recognition. 

“So they say.” He tries to sound normal, less like someone on the brink of a myocardial infarction. “Uh, what’s goin’ on, man?”

“Greg,” he says again. Greg tries to laugh, manages a snicker of acknowledgement. “I just met someone.”

“Oh, congrats?”

“Greg, I might go back to her place. Are you taking someone back to yours?”

Greg swallows hard and tries to be neutral, but he can’t help knitting up his eyebrows. It’s the last thing on his mind and he doesn’t really want to talk about this with his cousin. “Ahh, not that I’m aware of, no.” 

Kendall’s arm is slung around his shoulder, this friendly anchor that Greg holds onto for grounding. It’s hard to focus between the blaring bass and flashes of light but he does his best to pull his attention to the conversation he’s supposed to be having. “Should we find someone, then?”

The idea makes Greg grimace. “I think I’m alright, on that front? Like, I’m just enjoying the night. With myself.”

His last one-night stand hadn’t ended well, but the details of it still unsettle him too acutely and he can’t bring himself to say anything about it. He stares down at the ice melting in his copper mug. It reflects the pulse of the bar and Greg gets a little nauseous, so he resolves himself to looking at his cousin. 

Kendall’s shining a little brighter lately. He hasn’t eclipsed the other stars in the sky, but Greg tentatively thinks he’s doing well. He’s a little leaner in this wiry, cunning way, not depressingly skeletal like Greg’s seen him before. It’s been two weeks and he’s still riding the high of his victory; Greg feels like there’s not much to celebrate, not yet. He takes a long sip of his cocktail.

“Come _on,_ Greg. You’re so _boring_ for such a schemy fuckin’ ferret. Your dry spell has got to be enough kindling to burn this shit to the ground. What’s your type?”

Greg chokes and sputters, gets a piercing hit of ginger straight to his nostrils. Kendall has the nerve to laugh. Not so cool, but he can play it off. He sets his cup on the matte black table and shrugs.

He’s pretty sure Kendall isn’t going to look at him weirdly if he comes out. He’s done the math and Kendall is probably the least homophobic Roy sibling. Roman’s been cancelled by Twitter several times over, Greg’s watched it happen, and Shiv just has some of the straightest vibes Greg has ever felt. On the other hand, Kendall seems like the type to try and reassure him that it’s chill and love is love over and over, and Greg just can’t handle that kind of conversation when he’s sitting miserably at a barstool that hardly even fits him and trying to forget why he doesn’t do hookups, hasn’t for about a year. 

Besides, he hardly wants to admit his type to himself. There’s nobody here that checks all his boxes. No straight, celestial noses, arrogant eyebrows, Rayleigh scattering eyes sparking with predatory prowess nor friendly fire. Nobody’s waiting in the shadows to rip Greg to pieces and let him fight back. Before he met Tom- yes, sadly, Tom- he hadn’t even _had_ a type, or many serious entanglements at all. 

Not that Tom was a serious entanglement. Tom was a camisado cat and mouse game. It’s been two weeks since Greg has heard from him, so it seems like they’ve officially broken up, or whatever. 

Had they ever really gotten back together?

“I don’t know,” Greg answers finally, “I don’t really have one?”

Kendall nods. “Cryptic,” he says, but he doesn’t press further. Greg counts it as a win. He gives him another gentle pat, then separates entirely. “Alright. Next time, though.”

“Sure, yeah. Maybe. Uh, you heading out now?”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna take off. You good to get home?” 

Talking to Kendall has sort of taken his mind off his imminent panic attack. He feels better inside his body, less like he’s going to explode and coat the walls in pieces of sad, repressed bastard. “I’ll be alright. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Talk soon,” Kendall says, and then he’s sauntering out, arm around his newfound friend. He’s given her his jacket. 

Greg pulls out his phone so he can try to find his way to the train he needs. He bangs his knee on the table when he leaves, but nobody seems to notice. 

—

It’s too early for the sun to be so loud, Greg thinks. Or maybe he’s just incredibly hungover. That’s also a possibility. Either way, he needs four extra shots; one caramel-coated coffee drink is nowhere near enough to wake him up. 

At WayStar, he’d been trying to acclimate himself to less sugary alternatives- his old coworkers side-eyeing him while he tore through seven packets of sweetener and stirred them into the complementary black coffee was more than enough incentive to get him to kick his habit. The only person who can judge him in this 5th Ave coffee shop is his waitress, though, and she just grins and nods when he orders a second cup, and banana bread with whipped ricotta. 

He’s brought his MacBook so he can scroll through emails. It’s weird actually having messages to check, mostly forwards from Kendall with press and lawyer-y jargon he doesn’t understand, and invitations to talk with interested reporters. Kendall had told him to ignore the latter. Greg always reads them anyway, somewhat enamored with the foreign idea that people actually want to know what he’s thinking. That he has a place at the table with everyone else. 

But Logan hasn’t said anything, nor Roman or Shiv, so they can’t just yet. For all that he expected everything to blow up, it’s actually been pretty peaceful. Logan isn’t after the two of them with surly enforcers or discreet cars. ATN’s been quiet, mostly running stories attacking the victims of the scandal. 

“That’s a good sign,” Kendall had said when Greg asked about it. “They don’t have anything. They’re fucking cornered on this one, so they’re punching down.”

It’s a waiting game now. Kendall’s sent him a link to an article from a PGM-owned publisher. Scathing stuff, new accusations arise, etc. Greg flicks through it with mild interest, reads the extremely polarized comments section until the waitress sets his coffee and breakfast next to him. He offers a gentle _thank you._ She gives him a deserved customer service smile and steps away, and before Greg can go back to enjoying civil public discourse, Tom’s sandy crew cut enters his line of sight. 

“Tom?” Greg asks, because he can’t stop his idiot mouth from running. 

Tom darts a look over his shoulder. “Ah, you’re mistaken,” he says, and then grimaces _hard,_ which Greg almost wants to laugh at. 

“Um, alright.” He opts for a smile instead, small and appeasing. “Do you want to sit with me?” 

Tom looks worn once he joins Greg, harried the way he often is. He’s got a terse but cordial expression, clipped and courtly. Greg exhales some of his anxiety. Tom’s attacked him in front of other people before, sure, but he forces himself to believe that their being in a very public place might deter him now. Anyway, he doesn’t seem to be in the throes of a manic episode this time. He’d ordered an Americano once he sat down and now he’s drinking quietly, staring over the rim of the cup at Greg. 

“Long time, no see,” Greg says. He’s nestled his laptop into his brushed leather messenger bag so he can pick at his food undisrupted. 

Tom raises an eyebrow at him and shrugs. He returns his mug to the clean plate it came served on, tilts his head to the side, straightens up his posture. He has a starched white collar underneath a neatly pressed blazer, ash gray and stunning as ever. “It’s been awhile,” he replies shortly, his wrists resting against the edge of the table. 

Greg purses his lips and roots around for something to say. _How are you_ and its variations won’t do, not with Tom keeping cold. There are lots of things he wants to ask. He hasn’t been in the loop for some time but he misses it, how Tom used to drag him into whatever was going on in his head. He’s read a few stories about the turmoil at WayStar. He always searches- perhaps a bit eagerly- for Tom’s name, any updates about his job, but he’s only mentioned in short sentences. Little blurbs about the Senate hearings, things like that. Never enough to satisfy his curiosity.

“How’s Mondale been?” 

Tom nearly drops his icy front, looking surprised rather than disdainful. “Same old Greg,” he says. “You and that dog, I swear. He’s good.”

“Glad to hear that.” Greg takes advantage of the small flash of his underbelly to keep things moving. “Um, how about you?”

The side of Tom’s mouth tugs up in a small… something. The expression is hard to place. “It’s been alright.”

Greg nods and wishes he had reached for his drink so he could take some extra time to work out a response. He’s never so lucky with those small luxuries, though. “Oh, um, that’s good, too. I’ve been reading- you know, checking the news? But I haven’t seen much about you, so.”

The admission actually makes Tom grin. Greg returns his smile. It feels like old times, the two of them sharing a moment that nobody else would understand. He’s hesitant to say it’s nice, but it feels nostalgic, sentimental. The closest that they’ll ever get to a Hallmark moment. 

“Oh? Have you been thinking of me, Greg?” 

And isn’t that a loaded question. Greg darts his eyes away and tucks a stray hair back into place. “Just keeping tabs on the enemy, I guess?” He tosses on a self-conscious laugh, and just like that Tom’s laughing too. He feels almost dizzy. “You know. Ken likes me to stay updated, like, knowledgeable about the current goings-on. Sometimes I just notice, though.”

Tom seems a bit looser. He’s sitting without tension in his back, eyeing Greg without the implicit sense that he might lunge at him. “No, it’s cute. I don’t mind.”

Greg opens his mouth to reply to that and absolutely nothing comes out. Tom saves him by asking, “How is Logan’s golden boy, if I may?”

“He’s- definitely still kicking,” Greg says, unsure how much he should disclose. It’s just Tom, but sometimes Tom includes Shiv, and he thinks that adding Shiv might factor in Logan. He hasn’t heard much about the estranged Roy siblings outside of typical pap buzz about their latest street outings so he’s not sure what he should expect. Also, he’s had to babysit to make sure Kendall wouldn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep a not-insignificant amount of times in the last month. “We’ve been good.”

“Sometimes I worry about the two of you, tucked away in your little love nest,” Tom says.

“He’s… you don’t mean Kendall, my cousin?”

“I’m _joking._ ” Tom waves his hand and leans in. “You know what I mean.”

Greg manages a chuckle and shrugs. “Sure, Tom. Alright.”

“Your hair’s gotten shaggy,” he teases. 

“Oh, um, I haven’t had much time to get it cut? Been busy, and all.”

“It suits you. Reminds me of when we met, when you were just a stumbling fawn finding your way in the world. Before you were Greg, chessmaster extraordinaire.”

“I don’t know about that,” Greg says, ducking so Tom can’t see his cheeks. He _feels_ flush, at least, at the idea of Tom noticing how he looks. They both lull. Greg drinks from his mug, sets it down. Against his better judgement, he says, “It’s nice to see you.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tom’s looking down at his cup, focusing in on his last sip or so. “Even if you are a malicious monster.” 

Greg sighs, tucks his arms close to his body. “I didn’t really get a chance to, like, apologize,” he says. “But I’ve thought about it. It was never about hurting you, that night.”

“Sure.” Tom fixes him with a look. “Chessmaster Greg, like I said.”

“I’m sorry. I am.”

“Don’t look so down,” Tom says, deflecting. “It’s not a big deal. It just- it felt like one, you know?”

Greg turns his eyes down while Tom finishes his coffee. It feels like a rejection, for some reason. Maybe he doesn’t have the right to be hurt by it. He holds his tongue. 

“Ah, listen,” Tom says eventually, and Greg meets his solemn gaze. “There’s something else. It’s… I haven’t really had anyone to tell about this.”

“I- you can talk to me, if- if you want to,” he says in a rush, inquisitive.

Tom worries a piece of a recyclable napkin underneath his short-cropped nails, looking reluctant. “I mean, I probably shouldn’t trust you with it, considering you’re a backstabbing viper, but. Since you’ve so kindly offered.”

“No, I’m sorry. This will stay between us, if you really want to say.”

He takes a breath before he goes on. “Shiv and I are separating.”

It settles heavily in the air between them. Greg notices for the first time that Tom isn’t wearing his wedding band. If he was braver, he might reach across the Calacatta marble to take his hand. 

“That’s awful,” Greg says, hoping he sounds soothing and sweet. “Man, I’m- I’m really sorry. I had no idea.”

Tom gives him a sad smile. “That’s not quite true, though, is it?”

Greg’s at a loss. He doesn’t know if it’s an accusation he should defend himself from.

They’re interrupted by his waitress. “Looks like you’re all out. Can I get you another cup?” She’s watching Tom, who passes his hand over his mug and shakes his head.

“Um, no, thank you. Actually, I think I’ll be on my way. Busy morning,” he says, rising to his feet. “Put it on his bill.” 

She looks towards Greg. He shrugs helplessly. “Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll talk later?”

“See you around, Greg.” And he’s off, headed out the wide arch of the door and back onto the endless street. The waitress nods his way and takes his cup, and then Greg is left alone to consider what the fuck just happened to him. He scratches at his chin. 

No use thinking on an empty stomach, he decides, and finally gets around to the most important meal of the day. 

—

Aside from his little encounter with Tom it’s been an uneventful week. Greg’s been biding his time running short errands, which mostly amount to window shopping and stopping into different coffee houses, and spending his nights with Kendall. It’s easygoing for now, but he’s been stuck on the hidden details, the bits of information just outside his reach. 

Kendall knows, kind of. He’s on top of things, riding his winning streak as far as it will take him. The topic of family is difficult to broach, but sometimes he feeds Greg snippets of updates, just things he’s heard in passing. None of the siblings have spoken since the schism, as Greg has taken to calling it. Their circles overlap, though, and _everyone_ loves gossiping with the Roys.

Roman’s in charge of the cruise cleanup. Greg’s seen the news; his appointment to C.O.O. was met with a handful of articles about astounding nepotism at WayStar. He doesn’t know much but it seems like a Logan strategy, choosing a child to gracefully fall on the sword by way of a fancy new title. News about Logan himself is much harder to come by but apparently he’s in good health. Greg hasn’t heard anything at all about Shiv and Tom, which means the news can’t be public.

He’s weighed the pros and cons of dialing Tom’s number every day since he’s seen him. It’s what a friend would do, right? 

They aren’t really friends, though. One breakfast date- no, one chance run-in in a public place- doesn’t put them back where they were, at each other’s throats in the vicious trademark of their fellowship. 

He hasn’t called. 

He’s out and about, walking aimlessly around Pier 25 and admiring the Coke glass green shine of the river to clear his mind. It’s not quite placid. There’s still noise pollution choking out the sense of atmosphere, and if he pays too much attention he can’t ignore the city skyline just across the way, but it’s nice to force his brain into a new context. He’s just leaning over the metal guardrails to watch the waves retreat gently when his phone vibrates in his pocket. 

It’s Kendall, which Greg tries not to be disappointed about. He straightens up and steps away so he isn’t blocking anyone’s view, then slides his thumb across the screen to pick up.

“Hey, um, I stopped by your apartment but I must have missed you,” Kendall says, sounding flighty. 

“Hey, man. Everything alright?” 

“Did you see my email?” 

Greg purses his lips, knits his eyebrows together. “Um, no, I’ve been out of the house- yeah, pretty much running errands all day. Should I cut it short and head home?”

Kendall sighs, an arduous exhale that doesn’t ease any of Greg’s rapidly ensuing stomachache. “No, that’s fine, but. Fuck.”

“Are you okay, Kendall? I- I don’t want to be presumptuous, but like, it sounds like things might not be okay, objectively?” 

“You really don’t know yet?”

Greg’s fingers itch, anxious to check his inbox just to clear up some of the mystery. What the _fuck_ , Kendall. He turns back the way he came so he can start walking to their loft, clears his throat. “I don’t think I get what you mean? Is there news about WayStar I should know about?”

“Okay, I guess it’s best if you hear it from me. _Fuck._ Okay. Do you remember Shiv and Tom’s wedding?”

“I recall, yeah,” he says haltingly, keeping up a brisk pace while he navigates the neighborhood of restored factories and loft-spaces. If Kendall’s about to tell him about the separation, he’s chosen a weird way to bring it up. His audible nervousness is strange, too, not fitting quite right. 

“There was that cater-waiter,” Kendall says, his voice shrinking into an emotion that Greg can’t figure out. He just sounds _small_. “The one who- passed away.”

“Andrew,” Greg breathes, slowing slightly. He digs the fingertips of his free hand into his temple. 

Kendall pauses. “Andrew Dodds, exactly. Um, okay. I’m sorry, Greg. Sorry I dragged you into this. I should have known.”

Greg feels hot, bitter heartache, the pain of a missed connection, something that never had a chance. He bites his lip to stop it from trembling. “Why are you telling me this, Ken?”

He doesn’t expect Kendall to cry. Or at least that’s what it sounds like, the sniffling and heavy exhales on the other end, his voice shaking like he’s failing to hold it together. 

“Kendall?”

“I was driving,” Kendall admits in an obviously broken sob, tone raising with effort at the end of the sentence. Greg doesn’t get it, until he does. 

“Oh, Kendall.”

“There was a deer, and I told him that I _never_ drive-”

Greg wishes he was sitting down. He wishes he had options besides walking home and seeing Kendall’s face. He wants to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stay there forever until he’s had time to process this, the unresolved emotions he’s been clutching closely to himself. They’re slipping out of his hands already. He can’t do anything like that at all, though, so he falls in step behind another pedestrian so he doesn’t clog foot traffic. 

What’s worse is that Kendall doesn’t stop. He just keeps _going_ , cruelly contrite. “Dad knew. He knew about the keycard, and he helped me. And I just let him.” 

Greg remembers the press he read about how Andrew was a thief; the eye-for-an-eye justice story that ATN ran before Logan’s personal apology. He shudders miserably and starts to mumble. “Okay. I’m- I have to let you go? I’ll check my email, I guess. And I’ll see you at home.” 

“Greg-”

“Be safe, okay? I’ll, um, I’ll see you later.”

He physically cannot stay on the phone for another second. Any more exposure to Kendall’s tears would make him actually sick. He hangs up, knowing that his cousin’s in a vulnerable state, but fuck, another moment of weepy revelations would crack him. He’d just split down the middle on the streets of Tribeca. He steps to the side so that people can step around him, leans up against an unfussy brownstone, and sinks onto the fucking sidewalk. 

Nobody bats an eye at weird shit in Manhattan. 

Greg sits with his forehead pressed into his knees, his arms drawn around himself. He’s wearing his Ted Baker peacoat, the tailored charcoal one that he just adores, and it’s picking up all the city’s dirt, endless grimy specks of gravel getting caught in the nice, downy wool. He can’t even bring himself to worry about it, not seriously. 

He’s nearly slowed his breathing by the time he’s ready to look at his phone. He completely ignores whatever Kendall’s texted him and goes straight for his email, refreshing his inbox with a heavy heart.

There are five messages from reporters asking him to comment on the recent news, and Greg deletes them all as soon as he sees them. He finds Kendall’s name underneath a few promotional emails. 

_It was only a matter of time_ , he says in the subject line. Then he links to ATN’s website.

 **Did Kendall Roy really get away with murder?**


	2. ‘til the dinner bell rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few notes on hunger.

Greg found himself slinking away from the stifling rehearsal, tail tucked and ears flattened so he wouldn’t be noticed on his way out. The brick walls and high ceilings hardly left any room for oxygen. He needed a clear head and fresh air, and he couldn’t focus on the issue at hand if he was throwing all his energy into avoiding the groom. 

His attempts to stay undetected had taken him out towards the caterers’ trucks. A few of the staff who had been lounging around scattered as soon as he approached, but Andrew Dodds stood his ground, leaning up against the parked van with smoke trailing from his open mouth. 

“Dude, I don’t want to cut in, but do you think I could hit? I’ve got cash,” Greg said, patting his pockets to make sure. “I hate to intrude, but like, I’m not gonna make it through this thing sober.” 

Andrew looked him up and down, an unsubtle assessment that made Greg crawl in his skin. He switched his roll-up from his mouth to his fingers. “You’re not going to narc?” 

Greg jolted a bit. “Oh, no, definitely not? I really don’t mind.” 

“You kind of sound like a narc,” Andrew said. Greg stammered to defend himself, but Andrew only smirked, reaching across the way to hand him the joint. Greg shoved him some of the pounds he’d exchanged for at the airport and took the most relieving hit of his entire life. He exhaled leisurely, tried not to panic about doing drugs in an unfamiliar place, and then took another hit for posterity. 

“Uh, I’m sorry, I never even asked your name.” 

“Andrew,” he said. “Only there’s two Andrews on staff, so they usually call me Doddy.” 

Greg smiled while he inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs for so long there was hardly any left once he breathed out. “Well, I just know the one Andrew, so.” 

That earned him a laugh, a hesitant, bashful sound that made him happier than anything else he’d heard that evening. He’d been drowning under the polite drone of classical music. It was only nine and he was already overtired. Maybe it was the jet lag catching up to him. 

Or maybe it was Tom. Tom just _beaming_ , watching Shiv glide across the room with ecstatic tears in his eyes. His prenuptial glow. His svelte black suit, not even his tux for the ceremony, still perfectly tailored to fit his beguiling frame. Greg felt ridiculous pouting about it. It was Tom’s _wedding_. There were starving people in the world and Greg was moping about vintage wine and sophisticated hors d'oeuvres. He couldn’t even will himself to be hungry, to track down one of the waiters with Pimento crostini or some form of canapé on their tray. 

The rehearsal felt so staged and stilted. It might as well have been a line reading, the way Shiv was treating it. Tom was off-book and throwing real emotion into his performance. His vulnerability just looked dangerous. It was too authentic, too much tender emotion to show around people like this, in hallowed halls that only respected clinical courtesy. Greg had been throwing back whisky all night to avoid his secondhand embarrassment. 

It was better out in the open, without the somber strings of the Rachmaninoff piece enveloping him in brittle tension. The weather was perfectly suited to his gloomy disposition, but the joint was keeping him warm, wrapped up in snug selfishness while he babbled to his new companion. 

He hadn’t meant to talk about Tom, but. 

“So how do you know the bride and groom?” 

Greg paused and drew his mouth up. “The bride is my, uh, my cousin? First cousin once removed? And like, I work for the groom.”

And once he started thinking about Tom he couldn’t stop, the same kind of fitful repetition he had to endure most nights. His particular resentment had been simmering in his irrational brain since the fucking bachelor party, so he just started rambling. 

Andrew graciously listened, offered him gentle advice while he waited for his toke. “I think, tell him. Or don’t. I don’t fucking know.” 

Greg passed him the joint and smiled. “Yeah, me neither. Um, sorry, by the way.” 

He shrugged and took a sharp hit. “No worries,” he said on an exhale. “Listen, I have to get back, but maybe when I’m off in an hour you could find me again?” 

“Oh,” Greg said, surprised at his forward flirt. 

“Or I could come find you.”

He wasn’t used to being coveted. It thrilled him, though, and even though Andrew was nothing like imposing, tragic Tom, Greg was tripping over himself for an emotional distraction. He tucked his hair behind his ear. “Oh, sure. I’d like that, yeah. I’ll just- be inside, then.” 

“I’ll look out for you,” Andrew said, and turned back towards the castle, straightening up his uniform as he went. 

For the rest of the evening Greg was counting down the minutes on his Tissot Classic Dream, the one he’d learned to read just to fit in with everyone else in his circle. He still didn’t quite get watches- like, he had a phone. It felt rude to pull it out in the middle of a high society mixer, though, so he stuck with the timepiece and did his best to sound interested while he mingled with relatives even further removed than he was. 

He had his head down at the open bar, nursing a 12-year Caol Ila and cringing at the smoke it sent down his throat. He’d successfully avoided Tom for the better part of the hour. Both of their heights made it easy for Greg to pick him out in a crowd and then stay away from him at all costs. 

He choked down the rest of the dry drink, tried not to feel too sorry for himself. He was, after all, in the wrong. He had no right to consider himself jilted when Tom had never made any sort of commitment to him. They’d never had that kind of connection. It was all just the romance novel in Greg’s head, the subtext he read into Tom’s treatment of him, his ugly, senseless hope. 

“Enjoying yourself, Gregory?” 

Fuck, he should never have turned his back on the fête. He jumped a bit and peered up at Tom, his proper-host smile big and bright, his eyes as traditional as something delicately blue. Greg could already feel his skittish tongue starting to loosen up. 

“It’s great, Tom. Uh, beautiful, beautiful rehearsal. And I’m happy for you,” he said. “Uh, the wine’s great. I tried some earlier.”

Tom lifted his glass, radiating pride. “My parents made a contribution!”

Greg nodded and tried to smile. “I think I heard about that.” 

He hadn’t spoken with Tom’s parents. It was one detail that made this too real, a domestic luxury he’d never be able to afford the way he wanted it. 

“What were you drinking? Can I get you another?” 

Greg was thankful that Tom had cut in before he could start nervously chattering. Casual things, like what flowers did you use in the bouquets, and did you see Shiv sneaking around with her off-brand B.J. Novak paramour? He checked his watch, taking a second to work out the time. It was five ‘til. 

“That’s nice of you. I think I’m winding down, though, getting ready to turn in pretty soon here.” 

Tom’s brow shifted to worry. He leaned in with his arm on the counter, lurking just closely enough to make Greg shiver. There wasn’t much space to stand between the barstools, he rationalized, and did his best to meet his eyes. 

“Everything alright? It’s not all that late, is it? I was thinking we could share the round, if you wanted to.” Tom had the audacity to look hopeful. 

Greg was hunter green with envy. All the fierce things he couldn’t say were burning his soft palate while he held them back. “No, it’s fine. Just, I wanna be rested, like, well-rested for the morning? I’ve had a lot to drink already,” he managed, trying to be reassuring. “We can do beers or whatever at the reception tomorrow. Once you’re, you know, a married man.” 

He wouldn’t believe the look on Tom’s face was disappointment. Whatever it was, Greg had to lean away, staring down at the polished hardwood of the counter. “Hold on. Are you high at my wedding, Greg?” 

Greg froze. “It’s the rehearsal? Not the- not the wedding, yet. So. No.” 

Tom raised his eyebrows at him. “You are! Alright, Willie Nelson, I get it. Sleep it off, I’ll see you in the morning. And I’m taking you up on that beer.” 

Greg didn’t get the reference, and he could already feel the pressure of drinks with Tom weighing on him a full day in advance. He still hadn’t decided what to say about Shiv. Here was a chance to do it, to make some kind of confession; he could always blame it on the open bar, if it came down to it. He chewed his lip uselessly, offering a terse smile.

“You’re much harder to keep track of when you’re sitting down,” said Andrew, coming up behind him. Greg resolved to stand with his back to the wall at all future outings so nobody could sneak up on him ever again. 

“Hey!” He’d said it a little too loudly, but then, he had to compete with the crystalline ringing of glasses, friends and relatives cooing while they caught up, admired the decorations, the tasteful music selection. “Hey, Andrew.”

“Greg,” he greeted. He wasn’t in his apron anymore, just a white button-down with the shirttails untucked. Now Greg was pressed up too closely to _him_ , caught between the two of them in a distinctly unfun way. 

Tom cleared his throat. “Already making friends across the pond?”

“Oh, sorry. Tom, this is Andrew. We were- we met earlier, outside. He was just saying hi before I left.”

“Ah-huh,” Tom said, his head tilted back, his preferred posture for scrutinizing Greg and everything he did. “Well. Can I get you anything, before you go?” 

Greg made eye contact with Andrew, shot a smile in Tom’s direction. “I think we’ll be alright. Just, enjoy your party, man. Congratulations.” 

“Goodnight, Greg and Andrew,” Tom said. It had seemed so pointed, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. 

They parted ways and he headed for the exit with Andrew, feeling like he should have prepared more for the two of them to be alone. It wasn’t tense, just quiet and new, and Greg didn’t have much practice running off with men he hardly knew. 

“So that’s your boss,” Andrew said finally, once they were out near the designated staff parking. 

Greg was hardly containing his nerves, even underneath the layers of peat whisky. “Yeah, that’s- that’s pretty much Tom.”

“The one who’s swallowed his own cum and might be getting cuckolded.”

It didn’t sound like much of a question. It made Greg laugh, though, the sheer absurdity of Tom as a person when he was laid out like that. “The one and only,” he said. It wasn’t as though he was being teased for caring about someone so ridiculous, but he was kind of ashamed of it anyways. “He’s, like, not as bad as he seems. He just doesn’t know what to do with himself.” 

Once they were in the car, which felt unbalanced and odd to Greg, Andrew offered him a cigarette, which he took without thinking. They rode in silence for a bit while Greg tried not to wheeze from the menthol flavor. He did his best to take notice of the sprawling green hills stretched out all around them, or at least what he could make out from the headlights. 

It seemed so cheap and dirty of him, dipping out early to hook up with some of the waitstaff. Like… he didn’t want to assume anything, but what else were the implications, here? They were both going to be busy the next day, early, too, but here they were, smoking while Greg looked out the window of the wrong side of the car. 

“That’s what I love about these shifts, though,” Andrew said after awhile, breaking Greg’s concentration. “All the drama at these toff weddings.” 

“Sorry?” 

Andrew laughed at him. “You know. Rich people are _insane_ ,” he elaborated, and Greg laughed too. He was preaching to the choir with that one. 

“So it’s not just my family,” he said, hiding a cough. 

“God, no. No, you wouldn’t even believe it, if I told you some of the shit we see.” 

“Yeah? Like what?”

Andrew paused to think, one hand on the steering wheel. “We had one wedding where the groom was nowhere to be found before the reception. He’d just vanished. And everyone was in a panic trying to find him, there were all these frantic phone calls. The bride was all out of sorts.”

“Did he just run off, or what?”

“He’d been _arrested_. He and the best man, they were freebasing coke in the parking lot. Not being very conspicuous about it, clearly.” 

Greg snorted. He might have preferred that to watching his cousin give Tom the run-around, but hey. “That’s fucked.”

“Yeah, it was a whole ordeal. I think the mother-in-law wore white to that wedding, too.” 

“Classic power move,” Greg said, and Andrew tsked in agreement. 

It was a short drive, after that. They parked on the street and Greg shoved the burnt-out stub of his cigarette into his pocket. 

“You’re not very much like them, though,” Andrew told him while they were walking to his flat. “You’re a rich prick, for sure, but you don’t carry yourself the same way. You’re… awkward.”

Greg had just laughed, because that was true, more astute than he’d ever know. “Oh, they’re- like, we’re related, but I didn’t grow up with them. Like, I don’t even know them, really.” 

Andrew let him into what he felt bad for thinking was a rather small apartment. It was tidy enough, if bland; Greg had spent so long drifting in the Roy bubble of gimcrack opulence, he was probably just biased. 

“Most of what I know is just from Tom. He’s- I don’t know. He’s not really like them, either.” 

“Sure,” Andrew said, rummaging around for what was presumably his stash. Greg noticed he hadn’t bothered to change. They sat on his couch and he rolled another joint, fixing a cone of plain brown paper around a premade filter. Greg watched his hands with some interest while he broke up weed in a silver-toned grinder, packed it into the roll tightly and then twisted off the end. He even ran his white lighter along the edges, sealing its fate. 

He pressed it into Greg’s palm and tried to give him the lighter as well. 

“Oh, no thanks- I have my own. I try not to use the white ones,” he said, reaching for his lighter where he’d left it in his pocket. He had to buy a new one when he’d landed, they’d confiscated his old Bic at the TSA checkpoint. 

Andrew stared at him quizzically while he sparked, watched his extended inhale, intended to create an even burn. “Why’s that?” 

Greg tilted his head and handed it off to Andrew, exhaling smoke before he tried to talk. “It’s bad luck, right? It’s- it’s that superstition, or whatever?” He didn’t really know the specifics- it was just something his mother had handed down to him, and he’d heard it in a few circles, so he found himself following the unspoken rule. 

“I’ve never heard of it,” Andrew said, with a faint laugh. “Learn something new every day. Maybe I’ll go out for a new torch, soon.” 

“You can use mine for now.” Greg smiled, and then they smoked in companionable quiet, sitting at a respectable distance. It had been awhile since he’d been open like this with another person- Tom didn’t like smoking, hardly liked to know that Greg did it at all- and he was willing himself to be pleasantly relaxed. 

At least he didn’t have to stay the night in the same building as Tom. 

Greg wondered if he and Shiv were sleeping in the same bed that evening, if they were following tradition and keeping chaste. He wondered if Tom had missed him once he left. He felt so constricted by the force of his thoughts, the body high was just a physical vice grip. 

“Are you a fan of ket?” 

“Uh, ‘ket’?”

Andrew shrugged. “Special K, ketamine? I could cut us in, in a bit,” he said, draped over the arm of his unadorned gray couch. 

Greg felt fidgety in his suit. He was so overdressed for the occasion, he must have looked ridiculous. He didn’t think he could stomach any other foreign influences to his body, not while he was already struggling to anchor himself inside of it. He adjusted so he could peel his coat and jacket off, resting them on the empty seat beside him. 

“I haven’t tried it yet,” he said, haltingly. “You could show me, maybe?” 

He let Andrew cut them three white lines- one for Greg, two for himself- and snorted his through a rolled-up £50 note, which Andrew said was called a bullseye. And then he just sat and waited, his legs twitching with overstimulation, his fingers tugging at the knot of his tie to loosen it just a little bit. 

He prepared himself for that heart-wrench he’d felt after he’d done a truly artery-clogging amount of cocaine for the first time. Andrew had laid a hand on his back while he bumped and told him to go easy in this thoughtful way that Greg didn’t think he deserved. It seemed to help, though. It calmed the side effects once the main event hit, once a new, lacy feeling sewed its way through his fingers and brought his head down. 

He gave it a few more minutes before he made a judgement. “It’s better than coke,” he slurred, feeling open and out of touch. 

“That right?” Andrew’s grin was just contagious. They were sitting even closer together after leaning over the same blotted mirror. Greg could see where their knees were touching but they seemed so distant, just gentle background noise to his floaty mood. 

He shrugged. “My chest isn’t trying to cave in, so. I feel better about that, I guess.” 

Andrew had leaned back, looking awfully comfortable on the couch. “You should have them together. Ask around for CK1, sometime,” he explained, and Greg nodded, though he could hardly keep up with the flood of information. 

“Sure, I’d give it the ol’ college try, ha-ha.”

It made him feel like he was _happy._ Or something close to it. Greg could hardly conceptualize Tom, so far away and unknown. He was just someone in another room, someone Greg didn’t have to think about, someone he may never even have met. 

He didn’t have to think about kissing Andrew, either. It was natural to let their arms and legs wind together. He wasn’t Tom, but he was warm and sweet and smoky. Greg was so cloudy with the idea of being wanted that their kisses felt almost as good as Tom patting him on the back or rubbing at his shoulder. 

He raised his head eventually, trying to force his thoughts into perspective. They’d ended up horizontal and the position was numbing his legs. “Um, I don’t wanna be… presumptuous, but maybe you could show me your room?” 

“You _are_ being presumptuous,” Andrew said, but he didn’t look too scandalized. “But you’re also very tall, so I think that could be arranged.” 

Greg barely noticed the bedroom. His world had vaguely shifted down to unfamiliar hands and good-but-impersonal touches. Even the sharp thrill of being with someone new had the edge filed off of it by the fuzzy high. 

He curled up next to Andrew that night and came down slowly, trying to stall his reintegration with the universe by watching his hand trail against the static of the room. It didn’t work for long. He didn’t want to hurt again just yet, or think about why he was hurting. And wasn’t that a paradox- knowing exactly, acutely, what you didn’t want to know?

“Something the matter?” 

Greg startled a bit. He’d thought Andrew had drifted off, bored of his company, perhaps. He tried to work out exactly how much he should share. 

“It’s… I don’t want to be, like, an awful person right now,” he said finally, letting his hands fall to his stomach. 

“It’s Tom, right?” 

Greg pressed his palm into his eyelid. No use lying, even if the truth felt hideous. “It’s Tom.” 

Andrew rolled over, and Greg met his eyes in the dark. He didn’t make any move to touch Greg, just gave him this look of unwarranted patience. “You’re sweet, Greg. But I knew what this was about.” 

Greg couldn’t say anything. He’d fucked up. He’d dragged an innocent bystander into his grand conspiracy with his boss, the crime scene that the two of them seemed to create wherever they went. Maybe Andrew didn’t care, but Greg would, if _he_ were a proxy war waged for something deeper between two faraway powers. 

“I have to be back at the venue early tomorrow. Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” Greg said softly. He’d tucked up his knees so he could fit himself on the mattress, but it forced the two of them to rest in a position of unearned intimacy. “I guess I should get back, then, to change.” 

He hoped everyone else would be so busy keeping up appearances that they wouldn’t notice him skulking back to his hotel room in the same shirt he’d left in, wedding night-white and vestal. 

“I’ll wake you up to come along,” Andrew said, and shifted back onto his other side. 

Greg stared up at the popcorn ceiling. His phone was in his pocket in the other room, and he felt too bleary to make out the millions of little lines on his watch. He wasn’t sure what time it was when he finally fell asleep, but it felt like he’d hardly had his eyes closed a minute before Andrew was shaking him awake.

“Shall we?” He was already dressed up neatly, freshly showered with his hair styled into place. He had a sunny look about him, like he hadn’t spent the night with a complete asshole, like he’d slept soundly for his full eight hours. Greg wished he was someone who could appreciate the sight. 

“We shall,” he said groggily. He forced himself up to get dressed. The rest of the morning was an exercise in agony, hurting himself and others, and all that was _before_ he had to pose for wedding photos. 

Greg didn’t like to dwell on it. 

—

“Jesus, Greg, you’re a fucking mess.” 

Greg looks up at Tom, who has pulled up opposite him in a silver SUV and is already lecturing him from across the street. He’s the one thing in this sullen alley that Greg is happy to see, haloed by the flickering street light. He hurries to the other side and kneels next to Greg so he can see what he has to deal with. 

“Did you throw up? Your nose is bleeding. You look like an after-school special with a really on-the-nose title,” Tom says, brushing Greg’s damp hair away from his forehead. 

Greg is lolling, like the world is rushing up to meet him at eye-level. He’d half-expected Tom to call him a car. “Since when do you drive?” 

Tom rolls his eyes and leans away, helping himself to his feet. He reaches down a hand for Greg. “Since I’ve been taking weekend trips away. Come on, _Desperate Lives._ Do you need the hospital?” 

Greg takes his offered palm, hauls himself up, and stumbles. Tom catches him against his arm and glares in a way that belies his worry, his eyebrows drawn tight while he examines the fresh red mess on Greg’s cupid’s bow. 

“No? I just- I didn’t know where I was, I couldn’t get home.”

“Should I take you there?” 

He leans on Tom for support while they head for the car. Tom even walks him around to the passenger seat, and when Greg can’t get his seatbelt on, he clicks it into place for him. Greg processes his question and shakes his head frantically- he can’t go home, not when Kendall is looming there, probably waiting to corner him. 

“No, um, somewhere else, maybe,” he says. Moving quickly was a mistake. Now everything’s spinning in vertigo, and he’s got to tip his head back against the seat to get the ensuing migraine pain to stop. 

Tom shuts his door. There’s a quick pause and then he’s back in the driver’s seat. The lurch of motion when the car starts up unsettles Greg’s stomach and he does everything he can to keep the nausea down; he doesn’t want to ruin the interior of Tom’s presumably new Escalade. 

“Should I even ask what you’re on?” 

“Don’t, yet,” Greg answers in a timid intone.

Tom looks nervous while he drives, alternately checking the block ahead and the seat beside him where Greg is spread out miserably. He doesn’t say anything, thank god, and Greg zones out, thinking about his trembling legs and how unusually quiet it is outside. It must be _late_ late. 

There’s parking under what he assumes is Tom’s new building. They can’t have traveled very far before they stop. He gets the door open but he’s unsteady when he steps out, which makes Tom fuss. 

“ _Stop,_ Greg. Just wait. You’re in no condition to get to the elevator.”

So Greg lets Tom escort him there. It’s sleek and silver, and the twenty-four hour lighting burns his eyes as he stands with his head pressed to the back wall. They abandon the cold cement floor and climb up, too quickly for his headache’s taste. He tries not to notice Tom’s shrewd eyes on him.

It’s kind of fucking embarrassing, wobbling around with vomit on his derby brogues in front of _Tom._ Greg will feel much worse about it in the morning. Tom is being nice right now, but the bubble will probably burst. Greg peeks at him from the corner of his eye. He has his arms crossed over his chest with his keys in hand, and his arrow-straight back just screams agitation. 

The elevator finally stops and it’s one of those that open right into the room- Greg doesn’t know what they’re called, but it feels unbelievably fancy and kind of blows his mind. The apartment looks gorgeous with its exposed valley creek brick and wide windows. He probably spends too long staring, his line of sight sharp and startling. 

Tom wanders off and then comes back with a glass of water. He doesn’t really _want_ to drink it, but his mouth is acrid and coppery and his throat is dry kindling, so he manages a sip. It’s not awful. 

“Where are we?” 

Tom wraps his hands around Greg’s and presses the cup up to his mouth. “Drink more. You need it. We’re in Chelsea, this is my new apartment. I guess you haven’t been over yet. We’ll do the grand tour later.” 

“Oh, wow. Uh, how do you afford this, Tom?” 

Tom backs away and shrugs once Greg takes down some water to appease him. “Rent’s not _that_ steep. I mean, we don’t all have Kendall paying our bills—” 

He drops the sentence after that, and Greg is vaguely glad that he’s still too out of it to really connect with the weight of it. Tom probably knows what’s happened, but Greg doesn’t have to focus on the world at large. He can just be his body, his autonomic responses, his aches and pains. 

“You’re absolutely filthy. I think we should just throw those shoes away,” Tom says, changing the subject with whatever grace he can muster. “No great loss, really.”

Greg shuffles awkwardly towards Tom’s kitchen island so he can abandon the half-finished water. He’s forgotten how gross he feels. The blood is drying on his philtrum and he’s definitely sweating through his two layers of shirts, his wool trousers. “Do you have a shower? Can I use it, I mean?” 

Tom grabs for Greg’s clammy palm, rolls his eyes yet again. “You can’t take a shower like this. You will actually slip and break your neck. How about a bath?” 

“Oh, okay,” Greg agrees. He has no reason not to. He lets Tom take him through the center of the living room to a tidy hallway with an elegant, transitional bathroom at the end. The tub is clawfoot because of _course_ it is, and Greg stands in numb wonder against the doorframe as Tom twists the handles to draw him a bath. 

“Get undressed, okay? I’ll wait outside until you’ve made it in,” he says, gesturing for Greg to come further in. 

“Uh, you’re going to stay? Like, in here, with me?” 

“Are you going to drown yourself if I leave you alone?” 

Greg looks down at the floor.

“Call for me when you’re settled.” 

The faucet is loud and distracting while Greg tries to wriggle out of his clothes. He toes off his shoes delicately. It’s not too hard until the rest of his outfit puts up resistance. He ends up on his knees, shrugging off his shirts and undoing his belt with shaky fingers. His miles of legs are an issue but he gets there eventually, then he crawls into the tub like a pathetic insect rather than a six-foot-seven man. 

Tom’s added some liquid soap to the water and it simmers around Greg before it reaches a rolling boil of actual bubbles. He waits until he’s hidden well enough underneath the current to call Tom’s name, as loudly as he can handle, and then Tom is back with him, leaving the door open behind him. Greg huddles closer to himself even though there’s more than enough room for him to stretch out, wishing he’d let the water cover his chest, also. 

Looking at Tom seems far too friendly. Greg rubs his wet hands over his face to clear away the grime. He turns his head away when Tom comes closer to switch off the faucet. He sits on the floor near Greg’s unfolded clothes, his legs tucked underneath him. 

“Are you about ready to talk about what happened?” 

Greg makes himself shrug and cups a big, iridescent bubble in his hand. “I just had a bad night,” he says, picking his words with some difficulty. “Sorry.” 

Tom must be watching him. Greg watches his bubble until it pops. “I’m not upset, Greg. You just worried me.”

“Well.” Greg feels hoarse. “Thanks. You didn’t have to come.” 

It’s completely inappropriate. The moment feels shameful and sordid with Tom there to witness it, just relaxing on the floor while Greg gets naked and vulnerable. He wants to shut himself off. He never wanted _this_ when he set out to force his mind off things. 

This is the culmination of all the nagging problems he doesn’t want to deal with. It makes his chest burn, being surrounded by water and all sorts of sick reminders of his thing for Tom. They haven’t even spoken since Greg paid for his coffee. 

“I’d never hear the end of it if I left Cousin Greg out in the cold,” Tom says. Greg pointedly avoids his eyes. “You are _such_ a kicked puppy. You’re a walking ASPCA commercial.”

“Sorry.” 

“Yes, you are. May I wash your hair?”

Greg stills, his long fingers frozen in an arch on the edge of the bathtub. “My hair?” 

“Pull the drain, and sit near the faucet,” Tom says authoritatively, fetching shampoo and conditioner from the collection of bath products perched near the tub. Greg obeys without much thought. 

He lets Tom tip his head back gently, wetting his shaggy, oily hair under the hot tap. His hands are steady while he works out the small tangles with his fingers. The shampoo he uses on his scalp smells like a tonic, herbal and keen, and Greg’s shoulders soften for the first time since he left home earlier that night. He barely registers the stray drops of water that trickle down his forehead and into his eyes with Tom’s careful coddling distracting him. 

Tom works similarly-scented conditioner into Greg’s hair like rosin on a bowstring, paying close attention to the tips. He grumbles something about split ends but it’s lost on Greg, who is regrettably blissful letting Tom thread him back together. It’s another thing that will make him anxious once he sleeps off his uninhibited feeling but it’s good for now, stable. 

“Let me rinse you out now,” Tom says, and Greg does, relaxing backwards one more time. He braves a look back at his friend. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his wheat-toned linen shirt but it’s been splashed up the front with water anyway; not that he seems to mind, with the way he’s focused on scrubbing the slippery texture out of Greg’s hair. 

He runs his own hands under the tap once he’s done, then rises to his full height and gives Greg a stern look. “There are towels under the sink. I’ll find you something to wear to bed.”

Greg perks up. “You want me to stay here?”

“I don’t want you to try to go anywhere else. Can you take the couch?”

He grimaces, not thrilled by the prospect, but happy to put some space between them. “Sure. I would probably pass out on your floor if you wanted me to, honestly.”

Tom smiles fondly and turns to leave, his hand on the sterling doorknob. “I don’t hate you _that_ much,” he says, and he ducks out, shutting the door this time. 

Greg feels much better once he’s drained the tub and toweled off. True to his word, Tom knocks on the door with a pullover more casual than anything Greg has ever seen him wear and a pair of flannel pajama pants. He changes and then slinks out to make himself at home on Tom’s black suede sectional, which is wider and more comfortable than he’d expected. 

His body really is exhausted. Lying down is easy, he doesn’t even have to make himself all that small, and his skin is too bathwater-warm for him to care about a blanket. He just can’t stop his mind from moving, all his synapses lit up and restless in Tom’s dark living room. 

He really doesn’t want to be embarrassed until he’s sobered up. Knowing that Tom is the only person he has to come crawling back to doesn’t help, though. He was foolish for even calling, for scrolling through his sparse contacts and picking out the one person who should have never, ever seen him like this. Tom has been so awfully attentive, too. His pulse picks up just thinking about it. And with that development he has to confront the real issue, the one he’s tried to shove down even deeper, just under the layer of self-loathing that’s wrapped around every facet of the situation. 

It’s awful, being alone in the dark with unbrushed teeth and his pride in tatters. He’s just rolled onto his side to press his face into the couch when he hears soft footsteps. 

“You could have asked for a blanket, Greg,” Tom says quietly, like he isn’t quite sure Greg is still up. 

Greg lies still. He’s not in any mind to accept small kindnesses. He attempts to slow his breathing down convincingly. After a few moments of ignoring Tom, he feels him drape a velvety blanket over the length of his body. 

It’s more than he really merits, but it does calm him down considerably. Tom leaves his side eventually and Greg melts into the couch in time, dozing off with the memory of his hands carding through his hair. 

—

Tom wakes up at six in the morning every day. Greg knows this because he’s written Tom’s schedule, which starts with a thirty-minute run and a cold shower. He’s reminded of the fact when Tom starts rustling around his apartment right after he gets out of bed. He’s slept too precariously to ignore the sound of running water and shuffling dog tags, the elevator being called.

Greg lies awake until Tom comes back, hesitant to disturb anything. He’s working through a thick mental fog. It’s better than shooting chest pain and dry capillaries in his nose, though. He’ll take what he can get on the sliding scale of misery. 

He’s just thinking he could rest again when the doors open up. Tom is all dressed for his jog. He’s got Mondale with him, panting with his pointed ears resting against his head. Greg can’t help but laugh at Tom’s stupid running shorts. 

“I thought you’d be passed out until later,” he says, just barely out of breath. It’s only a little bit charming. 

“You woke me up, but I don’t mind, really. Um, I’ll get out of your hair, though.” He’s already overstayed his welcome. He still doesn’t _want_ to go home, but maybe if he’s lucky Kendall will still be out drowning his own sorrows. 

What an awful thing to hope for. 

He shifts himself up to sit, fighting the blanket where it tangles around his legs. Tom tilts his head. “What do you mean? I’ll shower and then I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Oh,” Greg says, smoothing his hands over his knee. The borrowed pajamas are _just_ too short for his ankles. “Only if you don’t mind.”

“You probably need it. Just relax, it’s Sunday.” 

“Thanks, Tom.” Tom waves him off and heads for the hallway, and Greg sits in silence, wondering where he’s left his phone. At least he can play with the dog. He tries to entice him over with excited hand gestures, but Mondale has flopped uselessly on the floor and refuses to get up. Greg can’t blame him- he would flop, too, if he’d been forced to exercise this early. 

When Tom reappears he’s looking trim in a terra cotta crewneck, fresh and formal. He doesn’t give Greg much acknowledgement before he starts lining up cookware on the island. Greg watches him work, and he can’t be discreet about it- he’s mesmerized by Tom cracking eggshells against the wooden counter, by the neat, methodical way he sorts ingredients, his attention to detail in measuring cups.

“Sit at the dining table, Greg,” he says, spooning batter into a pan that he’s heated and greased with what seems like coconut oil. 

Greg goes and picks out a chair along the side, petting Mondale’s satiny head as he goes. It’s in a nice spot, placed right in front of an open window so it gets a bit of natural light. He can still watch Tom from here. He might start getting sad again if he lets his mind wander from the strong, subtle muscle in his forearms, which he pretends is a decent excuse. 

Tom presents him with a plate of suspiciously brown discs, and a round egg whose yolk is coated in a thin white foam. There’s a garnish of what looks like herbs. Greg pokes at the small pile with his fork. 

Tom must read the confusion written across his face. “They’re microgreens.”

“Oh… thanks? What kind of egg is that?”

“It’s poached. I’ve been practicing.” Tom sounds proud, so Greg tries that first, breaking the yolk and letting it dribble onto the greens. 

He gives Tom an approving smile once he finishes his taste test. “Uh, whatever you’ve been doing works.”

“Try the pancakes. It’s this new recipe with oat flour.”

“The- pancakes, sure,” Greg says, hesitant. They look like something that his grandpa would serve, all sugar-free and health-conscious. He cuts off a small bite from the stack and chews thoughtfully. They’re not the worst, especially not with syrup and butter, but they’re also not true greasy hangover food, so he can’t help his disappointment. “I didn’t know you liked to cook.”

Tom stops hovering over him and returns to the kitchen, carrying a plate in one hand and a glass of sparkling water in the other when he gets back. He takes the seat across from Greg. “I’ve had more time lately,” he says, watching Greg expectantly until he takes another bite. 

Greg nods and looks away, uneasy about the potentially touchy subject. “I thought you might have been busy, like, with work.”

Tom sighs. He’s unfolding a cloth napkin in his lap. Greg doesn’t get why he’s so laced up for breakfast with a friend, especially after everything he’s seen over the last handful of hours. Even so, he takes his own elbows off the table. 

“Is that what all this is about?” 

It’s cryptic. Greg could figure it out, if he had more by way of brain capacity. “What do you mean?”

“You called me in tears at three in the morning, Greg. I know we’re not on great terms but we should probably talk about that, at least. I feel like there could be some unaddressed issues.”

Greg finds that he’s already eaten half of his breakfast, more ravenous than his uncommunicative stomach has let on. He picks at a sprig of leftover green. There’s no good way to start the story. He doesn’t even want to say Kendall’s name, unsure if he can manage it without choking up. It’s only been two nights so it feels like an unhealed blister, causing raw, red pain whenever he brushes up against it. He swallows. 

“It’s not you, Tom,” he says, bouncing his leg. He’s got enough room under the table to do so without getting a bruise. “It’s- business, mostly, all the business stuff.”

Tom takes a bite of his all-white omelette and frowns at Greg. He only talks once he’s finished chewing. “Are you and Kendall having trouble in paradise?” 

Greg frowns right back. “Haven’t you seen the news? It’s _your_ news.” 

And that’s when he understands why Tom is cagey about this. He’s the finger on the pulse of ATN’s journalism. Greg balls his hands into fists, his nails catching in the flesh of his palm. 

“You mean, have I seen the stories about Kendall’s negligent manslaughter?” 

“Don’t say it like that,” Greg whispers. 

“Sorry. Yes, I’ve seen them. But Greg, there are a lot of moving parts, and Logan… Roman and Shiv didn’t want him to have it circulated, not like this.”

Greg takes a deep breath before he replies. “You knew?”

“It would have come out sooner if they hadn’t really worked on Logan. He told them right away, right after the press conference. Shiv told him it was bad for optics to go after his own son so quickly, especially since he already knew. Gerri, Karolina, everyone wanted him to wait.”

Greg loses his voice and his appetite in tandem, staring down at the syrup-saturated bites he has left. He cups his elbows in his hands and tries to ground himself enough to think. He doesn’t look at Tom, but the air stills without the sound of his silverware scraping on his plate. 

“It’s a lot, Greg.”

Greg forces a laugh. “It’s- yeah, Tom. I don’t know. I can handle everything else, but this is just, dire straits.”

Tom still has his wrists poised delicately against the edge of the table. “I know how you feel,” he says. Greg feels like he _really_ doesn’t, but he won’t voice the opinion. “It was our wedding, you know.”

It’s too early to think about the last time he’d seen Andrew. They’d just exchanged tense smiles from across the room- the last time they’d spoken had been in the car, but Greg can’t bear to remember himself saying _great night_ and then running off to be with Tom, not now. “I know.”

“It’s an awful mess, at Waystar. I shouldn’t say. The two of you really did some damage, though.”

“Guess so,” Greg replies humorlessly. If he could bring himself to care, he could probably pick up something valuable for his side of the schism. Inner tension, who might break rank, all that gossip he’s learned to tune into. But he doesn’t particularly _want_ to help Kendall, not with this. “I wish I’d known sooner.” 

Tom leans towards him, and Greg finally looks up. “Have you talked to him?”

His eye contact is genuine and beseeching, and Greg tenses under its heat. “He’s the one who told me, over the phone. I tried to go back to the apartment after he called? But he was, like, really twitchy and apologetic when I saw him. I’m worried, Tom. But I can’t take him, if he’s like that.” 

It sounds kind of despicable without context, or maybe it’s justified. Maybe he shouldn’t have sympathy for someone who could take another man’s life and then walk away from the carnage. It worries him, how little of that is an exaggeration.

Tom only nods briefly. “You can stay here for a bit. You do want to move out, right?”

Greg hasn’t even thought about that. He can’t afford his own place in the city for very long, certainly not long enough for him to be able to look Kendall in the eye again. How will he move his stuff out if he can’t even address his landlord? “Eventually, maybe. I’d have to evaluate my options further down the line,” he mumbles, slouching petulantly. 

Tom’s finished his breakfast. He eases his chair back and starts to clear the table, comes around the way to Greg’s side to take his plate as well. He stacks everything and then sets it aside so he can invade Greg’s personal space with a bold hand on his shoulder. 

“We’re all worried about Kendall. Nobody’s going to let him hurt himself. It doesn’t have to be your job.”

Greg leans into the touch. It makes his anxiety flare, screaming every rational defense for why he shouldn’t allow this, and can’t. But he can’t help himself. He basks and toils in Tom’s contemptible care, lets him soothe him with soft rubbing. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he says eventually. “And like, everything else. You really didn’t have to.”

Tom gives him a firm squeeze and then pulls away. “It’s been, what? Two days on your own and you’re already a mess, Greg.” He’s smiling, trying to tease, and it lifts Greg’s mood just a sliver. “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind, for a friend.” 

Greg lets himself grin at that. 

—

Tom’s new apartment is really nice. The elevator had bothered Greg at first, until Tom explained the security protocols and showed him how to use the key. Besides that it’s homey and personable in a way that the townhouse he shared with Shiv never was. There are lots of little areas for Greg to curl up in, pretending to be invested in Tom’s collection of coffee table books. It’s also nice to have a dog in the house. Mondale is very receptive to Greg’s affection, and doesn’t seem to mind the nights where Greg has to rub his face into his thick fur to calm himself down. 

When Tom is home from work they’ve been spending quiet time together where they don’t quite discuss Waystar or media libel or lawsuits pending. Tom has cooked for him most nights, sitting Greg down to try out dishes that make him frown just a bit while he spins _Tribute to the Lady_ on his brand new Wrensilva record player. 

“You’re so _picky_ ,” Tom told him after he’d pulled a face at his wild mushroom risotto.

“It’s the texture,” Greg had said, only whining a little. “It’s too much soft food all together, Tom. It’s brackish.” 

Tom had sighed at him _so_ loudly. “You eat like a twelve year old who’s heeled the babysitter,” he’d chided, but he let Greg order McDonald’s on UberEats, afterward. 

Tom had even driven him back to his own building, and they’d scoped it out until they saw someone who looked a lot like Kendall leave. Greg had run up to his unit and shoved whatever he could think of into his duffel bag, including his stash of all kinds of things Tom would disapprove of, which he wrapped in one of the threadbare shirts he’d bought long before he ever got a paycheck from Waystar. 

He’s ended up with an odd assortment of his clothes. He has plaid trousers and pinstriped blazers and only one matching set to wear to the restaurant Tom has invited him out to; he’s sent a text with an event for Greg’s calendar and a link that Greg hasn’t followed. _They won’t let you in without a jacket,_ he said. _Meet me there._ Greg can’t remember the last time Tom texted him. He’d balked when the notification rolled in. 

Half an hour before he’s meant to leave he stands contemplating his wardrobe-on-hand, wondering if burgundy is an appropriate color for dinner out, or at least more fashion-forward than pattern mixing. He can’t make any of his other looks work so he settles on the virgin wool slim-fit set eventually. He’s got just enough time to comb his hair out in Tom’s bathroom, and then he’s meant to call a car to the address he was sent, arranging himself carefully in the backseat so he doesn’t wrinkle his clothes before he arrives. 

Tom’s cutting a striking figure in a narrow peak pewter suit, smirking at Greg as soon as he steps onto the sidewalk at Time Warner Center. The wind is just chilly enough that he regrets not bringing a coat. It isn’t quite sunset but the lavender mid-autumn sky gives the impression of the evening slowing down, as close to tranquil as Manhattan ever gets. The restaurant is tucked inside a pair of glistening blue buildings and Greg gets the sense that this is a very classy affair. It makes his heart pick up out of curiosity, hope with no hope of return. 

“Look at you, all dressed up with somewhere to go. Interesting choice,” Tom says, motioning for Greg to follow him into the building. Greg comes without complaint and Tom leads him in through the blue doors and into an elevator, where they stand at an exactly normal proximity. “Very Ron Burgundy.”

“It’s Hugo Boss, actually,” Greg says, preening just a bit. He’s got a black tie and a white dress shirt underneath. Tom doesn’t seem displeased by his sensibilities, at least. 

He does snort at Greg, and he rolls his eyes when he says, “From the film, Greg? The film where Will Ferrell plays the news anchor?” 

“Oh.” Greg straightens out his tie and shrugs. “I think I saw that on cable once. Uh, I didn’t really expect any fancy dinners when I was packing to flee my apartment, so.” 

“It’s not your worst look. They won’t throw you out for being a few seasons behind.” 

The doors slide open. Greg follows behind Tom while he offers the details of their reservation to a hostess who’s perched near the door. They’re seated at a small circular table that looks out on the canopy of trees in Columbus Circle, half-dressed in red for fall. Greg thanks the hostess when she pulls out the seat for him, across the way from Tom. Slow candlelight licks over the pristine tablecloth and the dainty vase of red roses in the center of the table. It’s an intimate arrangement. Greg drums his fingers on the table for a moment before he catches Tom shaking his head, then he drops his arms in his lap and whistles out a self-conscious breath. 

There are menus in front of them, the white paper kind that demand perfect table etiquette just to handle. Greg glances over the minimalist black text bemusedly, trying to work out what _carnaroli risotto biologico_ might be and hoping that it’s more appetizing than Tom’s. 

He picks out something he can pronounce to start a polite conversation. “Have you tried the prix fixe before?” 

“What was that?”

“At the bottom of the menu? It’s pretty expensive, so I was wondering if it was particularly decadent?”

Tom sniffs at him, the barest effort of laughter he can manage. “It’s a tasting menu, Greg. The prix fixe is literally the price of the whole thing. Didn’t you emigrate from a francophone country?” 

Greg raises a hand defensively, meeting Tom’s entertained grin head-on. “I’m sort of from all over? We never really settled anywhere, and like, my mom only speaks English at home. I don’t have a working knowledge of French, Tom.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Tom perks up, leans closer to Greg without abandoning his table manners. 

“Yeah, I think only a third of the country speaks it?” 

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Thank you for the fun facts off the back of the tourism leaflet. I was more interested in _you_. I don’t hear a lot about Greg, the winsome, wayfaring transient.”

Greg stares at the menu in front of him. That was definitely a compliment, even if it was coated in Tom’s general sheen of sarcasm. He’s not sure if this is what it _seems_ like, but the general atmosphere is very… affectionate. Though he has felt this way before, swallowing down outrageously priced bullshit in candlelit dining rooms with gorgeous, romantic views, sitting across from his married boss, wondering what Tom got out of the whole ordeal. 

He’s flustered by it, to say the least. And this time around, Tom isn’t previously engaged. Greg tries to be nonchalant.

“There aren’t many tales to tell, you know? I just kinda drifted around until I landed here. You’d get bored.”

Tom gives him a smile that’s almost coy, as close to playful as he ever seems to get. It’s the grin he uses to implore Greg, to coax him into opening up. All Greg can focus on is his cute, out-of-place tooth. “Isn’t there someplace you’d like to go back to, someday?”

“Why, are you trying to get rid of me?”

They both chuckle, and Tom shakes his head profusely. “Your lease isn’t up just yet. No, I mean, what’s your favorite place you’ve ever lived?”

Greg tightens up his mouth in consideration. It’s mostly been two-bedroom apartments with his mom or couches he’s been too small for, rural sprawl and monotonous part-time work that he hardly thinks about at all. Most of the excitement in his life has existed in Manhattan. He parses the downtown horizon out the wide window and tries to figure out if this is where he’d settle down, if the mood struck him. If he ever could. 

“My grandpa lives in Fitzroy Harbour,” he says after his short pause. “This cozy township in Ottawa? I spent some time there when I was younger, like, after high school. I had to get up early to help out with the ranch chores, but it wasn’t terrible? It’s- placid. Wide open spaces, and all.”

Tom studies Greg like he’ll have to take a test, nods in all the right places. Greg feels underdeveloped alongside his family- he’s the cultural runt, ironic as that is, and his anecdotes are never as grand or stunning as Roman’s, Shiv’s, Logan’s, especially. Not even his failures are as gripping. But Tom hangs off his words while he sips at his ice water, his eye contact bright and obliging. 

“You wouldn’t stay in the city,” he says once Greg is finished. 

“It’s nice here, too.” Greg bites at his lip. “I don’t know if I could sleep without traffic noises anymore? But, you know. The press wouldn’t hound me for comments if I lived in a small village with a population of four thousand.”

He makes himself cringe, bringing up incredibly fraught workplace politics at this dinner that Tom has amiably invited him along for. This is supposed to be a nice time. 

Tom doesn’t seem all that bothered. He thinks for a moment before he says anything, considering Greg warmly. “I can hardly picture you on a ranch. Although you do have a certain gentle giant hayseed charm to you. Of Mice and Greg,” he says, and laughs at his own joke. He sounds nicer than the moody French instrumental that’s flowing along in the background.

Greg hopes his open adoration isn’t obvious in his eyes. “I wasn’t all that good at it, anyway. Uh, not a lot of animals like me. And the hay is just so itchy.” 

Tom’s picked up the wine list, which is as thick as a short paperback- Greg can see that it has a table of contents from upside down. He leafs through it until he finds the page he’s looking for, then he meets Greg’s eyes again. “I’m glad you haven’t drifted off yet,” he says. 

Greg wonders if he’s overdosed, if this is his brain throwing him a bone while his body shuts the fuck down in some vomit-crusted back alley. It’s sick of him to like this so much. He shouldn’t be lapping up Tom’s attention, tripping over his misplaced praise, reading into the set dressing of their friendly evening out. He manages a smile anyway, tugs at his sleeve. 

“I mean, you don’t get service like this in rural Ontario, that’s for sure,” he hedges, trying to smooth over his nerves. “What’s the occasion, by the way?”

Tom hesitates in the middle of resting his cloth napkin over his legs. “Ah, I already had reservations.” 

Greg accepts that at first, then tilts his head a bit. “For two people?” 

“It was a work thing. Fell through, earlier.” None of Tom’s usual tells give any information away. “But, what the hell. I figured you might like to get out of the house with someone besides Mondale.” 

He’s about to thank Tom for thinking of him when their waiter approaches, asks how they’re doing that evening. Greg says, “doin’ fine, doin’ fine,” at the same time Tom says, “very well, thank you.” Tom shoots him a look and then launches into the wine order, a 1998 Château Figeac. He also orders something called Oysters and Pearls for the both of them, and makes a few other choices for the apparent nine-course menu they’ll be sitting down to. 

Greg gets a bit fidgety. That sounds like an absolute commitment of a meal. On the other hand, he’s still fluttery just being here with Tom, under much nicer circumstances than the last time they’d sat across from each other at a restaurant. 

When their first course of tapioca pearls and delicate caviar is set in front of them with a well-mannered _pardon my reach_ , Greg is noticeably starving for the first time in weeks. 

— 

Tom indulges Greg’s sweet tooth and lets him order the dessert course. The opera cake comes with coffee ice cream on top and a little basket of complimentary pastry on the side, lush raspberry macarons and fried dough with powdered sugar. Tom watches him eat with a lazy, sated smile. 

“I don’t know how you’re still going,” he says, after he’s handed off the signed bill and relaxed with a cup of black coffee. Greg quits scarfing down meringue and icing long enough to answer. 

“There’s always room for dessert, Tom,” he replies gravely, and he finishes off the last of the pink confections. Besides, he’d politely avoided some of the more exotic ingredients. He isn’t sure his stomach would react well to hen-of-the-woods. 

Tom nods along like he’s been convinced. He takes his previously unutilized dessert spoon and reaches across the table, which surprises Greg just a touch. “You might have a point. Let me try your ice cream.” 

They get a car back home and Greg half-listens to whatever’s playing on the radio, half-stares out the window at the traffic alongside the Hudson. The apartment is only a short ways away. Greg can’t help feeling that he would have liked to walk back with Tom. They could huddle close in the evening chill; if it got cold enough he could take Tom’s hand, protect his fingertips from Manhattan’s autumnal bite that way. Maybe they’d laugh as they went along. If he could kiss Tom he’d taste of strong, balanced espresso, Lucullan red wine. Greg’s so stuck on the idea that Tom has to nudge his arm when they get to his block. 

“Come along, Greg, it’s been awhile since Mondale’s been out,” he says. Greg thanks their driver and steps out of the car after him. 

“I could take him, if you wanted,” he offers once they’re in the elevator. Tom shakes his head. 

“I could use the walk.” He’s already unbuttoning his jacket, and Greg does his very best not to stare. “You could pour us a nightcap, if you’re so inclined.” 

They open in Tom's apartment shortly after, and Mondale trots up to jump at their thighs. Greg is glad to see Tom smile. He uses his lowing, playful tone to greet his dog, pets his head, changes into a thicker coat before he gets Mondale’s harness on him. 

“We’ll be back.” 

Greg waves the two of them off, then he goes to slip into something a little more comfortable, a little less evocative of late night comedians. He digs around in his bag for ankle length slacks and picks an auburn-red sweater to go over a neutrally green turtleneck, a put-together concept for a post-dinner drink. 

Once he’s fresh in his new clothes he finds his way to Tom's record collection across the living room. It’s arranged neatly by artist’s name in a horizontal cube organizer, North American walnut to match the turntable. Greg is overwhelmed by the size of it. The task of choosing something Tom will like makes him sweat for a moment, too, until he remembers that it’s literally Tom’s own music. 

Greg hums to himself while he sorts through albums, looking for something with an interesting cover, or maybe something he knows. He’s heard of the Velvet Underground before. He takes the record out of its sleeve gently and starts the turntable the way Tom showed him, raising the cue lever so he can set the needle in its place. It’s loud when it first starts up, mellow lyrics about bluebirds and quiet places ebbing into Tom’s bright living room. Greg finds the dimmer on the wall and lowers the lights to match the vibe. 

Tom keeps his liquor near the kitchen nook, rested on a bar cart with several wooden shelves. Greg looks over his selection until he finds an amber cognac and DiSaronno amaretto, which he rests on Tom’s island before he fetches two lowball glasses from the top of the cart. 

A French Connection is a simple-enough cocktail that his mom used to like. It suits Greg, with the dulcet notes of the almond liqueur, and the cognac winds it down for the evening. He mixes equal rations of the alcohol in both glasses and returns the bottles to their places. He rummages around Tom’s freezer for his granite whiskey stones- they’re awful overkill, but he’d explained to Greg that they chill the liquor without diluting it- and he settles them in the cups just as he hears the elevator, the telltale scrape of dog nails on hardwood. 

“It’s getting _nippy_ ,” Tom says by way of a _hello_. He hangs up his coat and then he’s just in his stark white dress shirt. It’s unbuttoned at the top, his tie undone. Greg takes the glasses in his hand and slinks around the way so he can meet up with Tom. He tucks one of the drinks into his grasp and reaches down to stroke Mondale’s back. “What’s this little concoction, Gregory?” 

Greg smiles shyly. “It’s just this cocktail that my mom liked to make? It’s cognac and amaretto,” he says, and he watches Tom take a slow, appraising sip. 

“ _That_ is a French Connection.” Greg is pleased with that reaction. He tucks his hair into place and beams. “Ah. That’s downright sapid.” 

“Oh, really? I’m glad you like it,” he says, and he drinks from his own, turns the cherry-like flavor of the almond on his tongue. 

Tom tugs at his free hand and guides him over to the couch. He drapes himself over a seat, pats at the cushion next to him. Greg takes the invitation eagerly. The Velvet Underground self-titled is still going on, _some kinds of love, Marguerita told Tom, like a dirty French novel…_

“Have you ever seen that movie?” 

“Hm?” 

“ _The French Connection_ ,” Tom says. He’s got one hand splayed out on his knee and he’s rolled up his sleeves. It’s all Greg can do to maintain eye contact. 

“Uh, I didn’t know it _was_ a movie, to be perfectly honest with you.” 

Tom laughs, uncruel and lovely. “It swept the Oscars when it came out, Greg. It was a critical darling.” 

“You’ll have to show me sometime?” 

“Mm, we’ll get some culture in you, yet.” 

Greg takes the opportunity to inch a bit closer to Tom, catching the conspicuous scent of his cologne and letting it overwhelm him. 

“Didn’t peg you for a Lou Reed fan, by the by,” Tom says. 

“What, the music? I just thought it fit, you know, it’s low-key.” Greg hasn’t been paying much attention to the record, really, and he doesn’t think he’s heard any of the songs before anyway. But Tom is happy, and his delight delights Greg in turn. 

“I haven’t heard this one in awhile. It’s nice.” Tom hums before he sips his cocktail. He’s loose and lenient when he looks at Greg, watching him with half-lidded eyes. “It’s nice to have your company.” 

Greg’s heart tugs, beats faster, catches on his ribcage. How can Tom be so lovely and so lonely? He can see it behind whatever he’s been playing at, this evening. It’s the same strange animal he sees in himself, the snarling thing that would nestle and purr, if it had someone to coax it out. Greg realizes he’s been famished for awhile, tamping down his hunger for closeness, for comfort. Tom is the exact same way. He just lets it all lurk much further away than Greg does, he’s been forcing it back for so long. 

Here they are in Tom’s lonesome apartment, perfectly suited to each other’s circumstances. Greg shouldn’t do this, but he knows what he needs. He can guess at what Tom needs, too. 

He leans in to close the alarmingly short distance between them, trying not to think about how long it’s been since he’s done this and what happened the last time. His hand fits right over Tom’s on his knee. It’s closer than he’s ever been to Tom before, their thighs pressed together, their torsos matched up just below the chest. They’re still holding their glasses. In the time it would have taken Greg to find a coaster, he would have lost his nerve. 

Tom’s eyes are wide and glinting with the low-beam light of the room. Greg closes his so he doesn’t have to see him, if his astonishment ends up being a rejection. 

“Greg,” he says placatingly, slipping his hand away and resting it on Greg’s chest. 

Greg pauses, startled by the ginger contact. He’s not quite sure what to say. He gives Tom a bit of space and blinks at him, searching for clues in his gently-set frown lines. 

“What are you doing?” 

Isn’t that just the worst thing he could ask? Greg recedes to his section of the sofa and pulls his hand off of Tom’s leg. He shuffles through excuses but they all miss the mark, so he goes with the honest, the obvious. “I was kind of hoping I could kiss you?” 

Tom’s eyebrows are furrowed. The corners of his mouth quirk up until he schools them back down. “It’s not a good time.” 

“Um, okay. Does that mean- like, maybe- there might be another time, sometime that would be better for you?” 

Greg wants to kick himself for that one. He just has no idea what he’s meant to do with what Tom’s said. He forces his eyes away so he can’t scour his expression for every little nuance, all the tiny twitches that he knows he’ll read into long after Tom has kicked him out for being creepy and forward and gay. 

Tom doesn’t try to shoo him away, though. He sets his glass directly on the table and sits with his back against the couch, sighing as he goes. “I don’t know,” he says. He laughs, and the sound of it is bitter as straight vinegar. 

Greg wants to laugh along to clear the air. He can’t find the humor to help him, so he abandons the idea and clears his throat. “Okay. Uh, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t look so distraught, Greg. I’m not planning on tossing you out.”

“It’s much obliged,” Greg says dully. He’s trying to stave off his shame, but he can already feel his cheeks getting hot, his fingers worrying at the hem of the sweater he picked out so carefully. 

Tom inhales, drawn out and deep. He shuts his eyes tight and then turns to look at Greg. “Fuck. It’s fine. It really is fine. It’s just, ah.”

His tone is laced with guilt, enough to make Greg inquisitive despite himself. He nods until Tom quits hesitating and says what’s stuck on his tongue in a rush. “Tonight was our anniversary.” 

“What?” 

Tom looks horribly guilty, as if Greg’s caught him with his hands dripping red. He rakes his palm through his hair. “It’s not _hard_ to get into Per Se,” he says cautiously. “I held those reservations for months anyway. We had our first real date there, years ago. I’d just thought that maybe if we had something concrete, maybe we could make it until then.” 

He doesn’t have to say her name for it to hang heavily in the air. Greg is completely out of his depth. He can’t get comfortable under Tom’s gaze, his eyes that swim with watery suppression, like he’s holding back tears for both of their sakes. It’s sensitive and exposed, a burbling wound that they’re both too fragile to endure. He can’t even react physically. It’s too difficult to decide what he should do with his body, and really, he’s lucky his fingers haven’t locked up enough for him to drop his glass on Tom’s tasteful rug. 

“They used to have three Michelin stars, you know. They dropped down to two. You should see the reviews.” Tom still sounds like he has a bad taste in his mouth. 

“I didn’t know,” is all Greg can think to say. He wouldn’t have done this, if he had. Now he can’t ignore the trappings of their tragedy; Tom isn’t a charming suitor to calm the tempest that’s raging in Greg’s head these days. Tom is recently separated, presumably straight, just as stormy and sad as Greg is, and Greg has taken advantage of his unhappiness in a way that neither of them are steady enough to weather. 

“I didn’t expect you to. I didn’t expect you to pounce on me, either, but- oh, Greg, hold on a moment, don’t fuss…” 

Tom is so far from vicious. He’s being much sweeter than Greg can handle, though, and even his mollifying joke is abrasive. Greg feels silly for letting himself cry. It’s been awhile, though. He drags the back of his hand over his cheek, covers up his face so Tom won’t see him like this, this rare display he’s fought hard to keep hidden. 

It’s too much all at once. Greg can’t ignore that he’s shortsighted, a creature of craving who’s selfish enough to mistake desire for necessity and chase after it the same way. He’d done it back in England. He’d been callous enough to make the last night of someone’s life their very worst all because he couldn’t get over his laughable little crush on _Tom Wambsgans._

“I‘m not mad, Greg,” Tom says. He reaches out for Greg’s shoulder but he recoils as if his palm is scalding. This is the source of all of his wishful thinking, these times where Tom treats Greg like he’s something that needs sugary handling. He can’t take it, not now. The shadow of his touch makes Greg’s skin feel like scorched earth. 

“It’s fine.” He can’t look him in the face just yet, not when his own voice is shaking in his ears. “Should we, perhaps, call it a night?” 

Tom tuts at him softly, shifts in his seat. Greg flinches prematurely but the tactile warmth he expects never comes. “Let’s. You don’t have to sleep on the couch, though.” 

Greg pauses his sniveling to glance at Tom warily. He’s smiling, almost, offering up sincerity when he speaks again. “Why don’t you lie down with me? I don’t want you to run off.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Greg says, a bit more stable, or at least getting there. “I’d like that, though.” 

He’s hesitant to admit that. Even though Tom’s offered, it feels like he’s asking too much. But Tom doesn’t seem to hate him for it; he only nods, rising from the couch. “Go ahead and get ready for bed, then. I’ll leave the door open for you.” 

Tom eases the cocktail out of Greg’s hand, careful to avoid his fingers. He takes both glasses to the kitchen and pours whatever is left down the drain. The tumblers go in his dishwasher, then he pads down the hallway to brush his teeth and go through his frankly outrageous nighttime skincare routine. 

Greg changes for the second time, seeking out the worn sweater Tom had passed onto him the first night he’d stayed here. It’s a substitute for close contact, the kind he knows he won’t be able to accept, can’t receive. 

Once he’s dressed to rest he makes his way to Tom’s room. He’s caught glimpses of it from the hall, but it’s the first time he’s been in- he catalogues the appropriately stylish abstract painting on the wall behind the four-post bed, the two sets of pillows, the singular nightstand. 

He’s just sat on the edge of the more barren side when Tom trails him inside, dressed ridiculously in a set of striped pajamas. It’s enough to get Greg to smile; he can always count on Tom’s inherent silliness to lighten the mood. 

Tom turns out the light near the door and the darkness is terribly cozy. His bed, Greg thinks with some alarm, is big enough to fit the both of them all stretched out with ample space left over. He lies down along the very edge anyway. 

By some small act of mercy, Tom doesn’t try to touch him. When he tucks himself under his down comforter he says, “goodnight, Greg,” softly enough that Greg might have missed it if he wasn’t hyper-aware of every subtle sound. 

“Goodnight, Tom,” he says over his shoulder. 

—

Greg is relieved to find Tom up and out of bed in the morning, gone before he ever stirred awake. He takes a moment to collect himself and luxuriate in the fresh, lightweight sheets. Tom’s couch isn’t _bad_ , for a sofa, but nothing quite beats sleeping on an actual mattress. 

When he’s ready he stumbles along to the open plan entertaining space. Tom is whistling to himself and plating up what he hopes is French toast, and he turns to wave at Greg with his spatula when he notices that he has company. 

“Here, come sit,” he says. Greg starts for the table but Tom makes a surprising beeline for the couch, so he ends up sitting there.

Greg takes the plate from him and rests it in his criss-crossed legs. The French toast is absolutely indulgent, fluffy and rich with butter and cinnamon. It’s a stark departure from the food Tom typically serves him. Tom is already fitted for the day in one of his puffed-up vests with a quarter-zip underneath, unscuffed hiking boots tying it all together. 

“This is quite toothsome,” Greg says around a mouthful. “Thank you.” 

Tom grimaces at his etiquette. “My pleasure. But listen, I’ve been thinking.” 

Greg feels all the tentative calm leave his body. All his muscles go stiff in anticipation of the consequences of whatever the fuck he was thinking last night. 

“I’ve been taking these hiking trips upstate with Mondale. He’s really missed the fresh air.” 

“Right.” 

“Will you be okay here until Monday? I just think it’d be good for the two of us, to get out and about.” 

Well. It’s more manageable than being asked to leave. Greg does his best to nod, and he certainly doesn’t feel abandoned, though he notices a Tumi suitcase already standing upright near the elevator. “Yeah, no problem. I don’t have to stay here, though. Like. I have an apartment.” 

Tom gives him a noncommittal shrug, an enigmatic frown. “It’s just a thought. You can take the bedroom, and the pantry’s all yours. But if you’re ready to get home, I won’t make you stay.” 

There’s probably nothing in the world that Greg wants less than to go back to his apartment. If he’s in his own space he has to confront things himself, all the emails that are piling up, voicemails from lawyers that he hasn’t had time to listen to, the news on TV that he doesn’t want to watch. He’ll have to curl up under his cold blanket and wake up all by himself, and then he’ll probably blow his savings on PostMates, since he never keeps actual food around the house. 

“Where are you headed?”

“Up to the Adirondacks,” Tom says simply. “I found this neat little hotel up there a couple years ago. Shiv wasn’t a big fan. It’s, you know, _rustic._ Quilts on the beds, wood paneling, that sort of thing. But I’m eager to get back.”

Greg doesn’t really know enough about upstate New York to know what Tom is talking about. There’s a small part of him that wants to throw himself to the ground next to Tom and beg him to take him along. He doesn’t really want to be alone, not here, not anywhere. He wants quaint nicety and hotel quilts and Tom’s attention, enough of it to fill the deep chasm in his stomach. 

“Sounds fun,” is all he says. He takes another bite. 

Tom spends another half an hour packing up all his toiletries. He hangs around in the kitchen while Greg puts his plate away, wrapping a monogrammed black scarf around his neck.

“Just let me know if you need anything.” Tom fits Mondale into his harness. He steps into it sweetly and sits for his leash, and Greg gives him a goodbye scratch behind his velvet ears. “No parties, don’t set the place on fire, phone numbers are on the fridge,” he quips, calling the elevator to take him down. 

Greg smiles and chuckles, waving at Tom when he steps into the lift. “No promises,” he says, “see you soon. Be safe.”

“Text me if you change your mind about staying?”

“Sure thing,” he says, though he hasn’t really made a choice yet. 

He’s got some free time to work it out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! did it take me almost a month to write this? well. it’s officially the longest thing i’ve ever written! i really hope that it was worth the wait! if you’re curious about tom and greg’s nine course tasting menu dinner date, check out per se manhattan, which actually does have three michelin stars as of 2019. it’s been described as ‘respectably dull at best to disappointingly flat-footed at worst,’ and so it is perfect for tom and greg. 
> 
> honestly this was a collaborative effort from tomgreg nation. collegespock and thehungagayums both read over my nigh-unreadable draft and encouraged me to actually finish this thing. i cannot thank y’all enough. tumblr user pollyjean (i do not know if you’re on ao3 i’m SO sorry.) helped me find an album for the mood, and if the velvet underground self-titled isn’t just perfect, i don’t know what is. and who could forget dear rat boy captainkoirk, who put together the nightcap-mixing greg fit and lent me the idea of tom’s miserable lonely bar cart? our conversations about tom’s ralph lauren pajama set have been extensive. squad, and so forth.
> 
> all your sweet comments on the last chapter are VERY much obliged, i can’t even say how much i appreciate every single nice thing that you lovely folk say about my silly little succession fanfiction! where would i be without you all? thank you so, so much- i am so humbled, truly. i hope this is decent and i love you guys so much, thank you for reading my tomgreg fever dream that i’ve managed to transcribe to the page!

**Author's Note:**

> so! this is my tomgreg passion project that i have been dying to write and share. if you pay close attention in 1x09, you’ll notice that greg spent the night with andrew, the waiter who is later involved in kendall’s accident. i’m interested in how that information will affect the story next season, but i also have tomgreg brainrot, so this is my way to explore those things in tandem. 
> 
> first of all huge shoutout to collegespock for being so lovely and looking over this multiple times!! your encouragement is keeping this thing on track lmao. second of all thank you captainkoirk for the concept of the tribeca love nest, it’s been haunting me since you first brought it to my attention. third of all, the entirety of tomgreg nation... ily. you guys are my homies fr. 
> 
> i’m on tumblr @ cousingregfancam and often saying things! thanks for reading the boring setup chapter, i hope to update soon!


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